


Don't Tell My Dads I Mated With A Werewolf

by sarahatqt



Series: Don't Tell My Dads [2]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossover, Destiel - Freeform, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mating, Sabriel - Freeform, Temporary Character Death, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahatqt/pseuds/sarahatqt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how gruesome and vivid and awful nightmares were, you could wake up from them. Nightmares weren’t real. They couldn’t be. Because Derek was dead. And any reality where Derek was dead couldn’t be anything other than a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Death. A Mourning.

Stiles screamed. And when the lifeless body clutched in his arms remained just that—lifeless, cold—he screamed harder. He screamed until his lungs and throat burned, and then he screamed some more. He screamed until noise was a distant memory and all that came out of his mouth were pathetic squeaks and choked sobs. His cheeks were raw and red from tears. Mud caked his clothes and his face, his hands and his arms and everything. _Everything._ He could almost pretend there wasn’t blood everywhere, too, mixed in with the mud on his clothes and his face, his hands and his arms and everything. 

_Everything._

_Every. Fucking. Thing._

Because Derek was dead.

And if he pretended for just a little bit longer, if he held on and closed his eyes just a little more tightly, then it was still just a dream—no, a nightmare. No matter how gruesome and vivid and awful nightmares were, you could wake up from them. Nightmares weren’t real. They couldn’t be.

Because Derek was dead. 

And any reality where Derek was dead couldn’t be anything other than a nightmare. Couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be.

“Derek…”

0 o 0 o 0

3 Months Earlier:

“You promised,” Stiles whined into his phone, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom from his slouched position in his desk chair. 

“I know,” Derek said from the other end, his voice low and crackling from the bad reception. 

“I _specifically_ got my parents out of the house for this _one night_ , Derek.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you know how hard it is to get them to leave me alone in the house for an evening when I have a werewolf for a boyfriend?”

“Yes.” There was a large amount of frustrated displeasure in that single syllable. And every ounce of it went straight to the pit of Stiles’ stomach. He let the hand on his thigh wander further up his leg.

“Then you know I’m just desperate enough to start without you, sourwolf.”

There was a pause before Derek breathed harshly into the phone, distorting the growled, “Stiles.”

“Better hurry,” Stiles warned, his breath catching as his fingertips inched their way beneath the waistband of his jeans. “Almost midnight. My birthday will be over soon.”

The soft sound of bare feet hitting carpet put a smile on Stiles’ face, and he spun his chair around to face the panting, shirtless figure beside his open window. 

“What took you so long?” the teen asked, setting his phone on the desk and swinging the chair left and right. 

Derek’s nostrils flared, and Stiles stopped, staring at the man in front of him. His skin glistened with sweat—he’d been running, probably smelled like the forest. Stiles liked that smell. Very much. Before he’d met Derek, he hadn’t paid much attention to smells. Sounds. Sights. His senses had been too clogged with Adderall to notice. But Derek made him better, made him see. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” Stiles said absently, and Derek snorted, coming forward to grab the teen by the collar of his shirt and pushing him backwards towards the bed. Stiles’ calves hit the edge, and his arms flailed wildly before he fell back, bouncing once with a laugh as Derek placed a knee between the young man’s thighs. The bed gave a sharp creak when Derek put his full weight onto it, hands palm-down on either side of Stiles’ head while his thighs shifted the teen’s legs apart so he could settle between them.

Stiles gasped, arching his back and bringing his arms around Derek’s torso to dig his fingernails into the other’s shoulder blades. “Derek,” he choked, sobbed, pleaded. “Now. Please. Please, now.”

Derek buried his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck, inhaling deeply, sharply, like he was trying to pull the teen into him. 

Oh, yes. Yes, definitely. But another time, maybe.

His fingers found the short hairs at the nape of the werewolf’s neck and tugged hard. “Derek,” he said harshly. “ _Now_.”

“Stiles,” Derek chuckled, raising his head and smiling genuinely, without reserve or burden. He didn’t share many of these, and Stiles was sure to collect and file them in his mental database when they surfaced. It was enough to make the teen pause, study the older man carefully while Derek shifted down onto his elbows, bringing their chests flush together. 

“I just,” Derek started quietly, running the backs of his fingers along Stiles’ jawline, “want you to enjoy this. I don’t want to rush. I don’t want to…hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Stiles assured, capturing Derek’s lips and refusing to release them until they softened. “You won’t. I know you won’t.” The older man still looked unsure, and no freaking way was Derek freaking Hale going to ruin Stiles’ birthday sex—well, his first ever sex. 

No. Absolutely not.

“Derek Middle Name Hale, you listen to me, and you listen good. The only way— _The. Only. Way_ —you are going to make this bad in any way is if you keep acting like you’re stealing my virtue, or something. ‘Cause let me clarify: you _are_. Do you hear me?” Derek nodded, lips parted and breaths somewhat ragged. “Good. Now lose the pants and get the lube from the top drawer of my nightstand.”

The older man complied on both counts, shucking his jeans to mid-thigh and kicking them off the rest of the way before stretching toward the drawer Stiles had indicated. Stiles wriggled and laughed beneath him, hands wandering over _skinskinskin_ so warm. 

“Commando, huh?” the teen asked, baring his teeth in a wicked grin while his fingers kneaded the muscles of Derek’s really nice ass.

Really, _really_ nice ass.

Derek huffed and ground his hips down onto Stiles’ abdomen, his erection leaving a trail of precum on the young man’s favorite shirt. 

“Dude,” Stiles protested half-heartedly, running his fingers through the mess and bringing them up to his mouth. Before the fingers reached his lips, he caught sight of the look on Derek’s face—the older man’s mouth was parted slightly, his nostrils flaring with each harsh breath, and his pupils blown wide. 

Stiles licked each finger individually with the flat of his tongue, slowly and deliberately, until he got to his thumb, which he sucked into his mouth and twisted before releasing with a lewd pop. 

Derek gave him no time to swallow, delving down and forcing his tongue past Stiles lips. The teen groaned, and Derek answered the sound with a rough growl, pulling away from Stiles and spreading a thin string of cum between their mouths. 

Stiles grinned and leaned forward, licking the string from Derek’s lower lip. “Still fully-clothed, here,” he said into the older man’s mouth, and it was enough to spur Derek into action. 

He lifted a hand, fingernails extending sharply, before tearing into fabric. Stiles had only a moment to mourn his favorite shirt before the tattered material was tossed away over the side of the bed and Derek was sliding down between the teen’s legs, head positioned over the waistband of his jeans. 

“Derek,” Stiles said warningly, his mouth dropping open as Derek offered a sharp-toothed smile. “Don’t you _dare_! These are brand new—”

Derek lowered his head, teeth clamping around the button of Stiles’ jeans and tearing it off with a quick tug. Raising his head, he grinned, button gleaming between his teeth.

Stiles pouted. “Not cool.” Derek spat the button at his head. “Hey!”

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” the older man promised, eyes bright with amusement. And how could Stiles be mad at a man who was smiling like that? Who had no reason to smile but offered one genuinely and without thought? To _him_ , of all people?

The teen carded his fingers through Derek’s hair, and for just a moment, the smile waned. No, Stiles couldn’t have that at all. 

“A _better_ pair,” he responded with a light tug of the hair between his fingers. “ _Several_ pairs, actually, if this is how you’re going to treat them all.”

The smile returned at full force. “Agreed,” Derek said, dipping his head again and taking Stiles’ zipper in his teeth. Stiles arched his back, pressed his hips up into the werewolf’s face, but Derek held him down, sharp fingernails digging into denim that was beginning to slide down pale, boney hips. 

“Shit,” Stiles breathed, hand clamping onto Derek’s shoulders as the older man pulled the zipper down, forced his nose into the parted fabric, and inhaled. “Oh, I love it when you do that.”

Derek chuckled. “I know,” he said, raising his head. “And, apparently, I’m not the only one who decided to go _commando_.”

Stiles shrugged and wiggled his hips again, jeans sliding down further. “Just wanted to save time.”

The older man’s fingers curled into the waistband of Stiles’ jeans, shucking them entirely and throwing them over his shoulder. They landed on his desk, pushing papers to the floor and shoving his computer mouse halfway across the surface. 

“No need,” Derek assured, a growl rumbling low in his throat. “We’ll be _taking_ our time tonight.”

Stiles made to protest, but Derek suddenly leaned down, licking precum from the teen’s stomach and taking the head of Stiles’ cock into his mouth. The older man hollowed his cheeks, sucking lightly and swirling his tongue around the slit before taking the teen nearly all the way in and bobbing back up. 

The younger man moaned and clutched at the sheets beneath him, focusing on Derek’s wet mouth and not the sound of the lube bottle cap flipping open with a _click_. They’d done this part already before—the lubing and the stretching. But only that. Derek had wanted him to get used to it, to let his muscles remember the feel of something foreign inside him. And Stiles was very proud to say that after almost a month of preparation, he could take _three_ (count ‘em, _three_ ) of Derek’s fingers with barely a twinge of pain. 

The lube, however, was still cold enough to make him cringe when Derek reached between his legs, rubbed his balls, then circled the tight, puckered ring of muscle just below them. Stiles exhaled sharply and instinctually pulled away, but Derek’s hand on his hip held him still, the older man’s head bobbing a little faster to distract him. 

Derek’s finger did nothing more than make a small, massaging circle for a good minute, the thumb of the other hand on his hip mirroring the action, until the lube was slightly warmer, and Stiles relaxed into the repetitive motion. When the man’s middle finger finally _did_ breach into the slick warmth of him, Stiles looked down to see Derek staring back up at him, mouth still wrapped around his flushed cock, watching him carefully for any sign that he should stop. 

The younger man smiled reassuringly, fingers stringing through the short hairs at the nape of Derek’s neck. This was the man he loved, the man he was about to tie himself to forever. There would be no take-backs or second chances. 

This was it. 

And Stiles was absolutely ready for it. 

Derek twisted his finger as he slid it in and out of Stiles body, crooking it at just the right moment to make white sparks dance behind the teen’s eyes. 

“Derek,” Stiles choked, his back arching, “it’s…it’s gonna be soon. Slow down, slow down.”

Derek did as he was told, his head bobbing one more time before he released the young man’s cock. It fell back against Stiles stomach, thick and wet and shining in the limited light. 

A second finger seamlessly joined the first, Derek pumping them in and out of Stiles a few times before starting to scissor them. The older man lowered his head, pressing kisses into his groin and down his left thigh. Stiles began to shudder with anticipation, the muscles in his abdomen spasming the worst and sending tremors all throughout his body. Derek stopped and raised his head, which was exactly what Stiles _didn’t_ want at the moment, thank you very much. 

“Stiles?” the older man questioned, concern lacing the tone. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said—totally convincingly, by the way.

Derek waited a beat. “We don’t have to do this if you aren’t—”

“I’m _ready_ ,” Stiles interrupted, this time looking Derek in the eye. “I’m _so_ friggin’ ready it’s not even funny.” He sniffed and sighed, covering his face with his hands when Derek still made no move to continue. “I’m just…What if I’m no good at this?” Derek carefully slid his fingers out of Stiles, which left him feeling extremely empty—but at the same time grateful because, really, who wanted to have a conversation like this when someone’s fingers were up your ass? “What if we do this, and I’m awful, and you’re stuck with crappy sex for the rest of forever?”

Derek shifted upward until he and Stiles were at eye level before pressing their bodies together and covering him in _warmwarmwarm_. “Stiles,” the older man said cautiously, moving Stiles’ hands away from his face, “I thought we were past the pep-talk portion of the evening.”

Stiles laughed humorlessly. “The only pep-talks you ever give are to the pack before you go off to kill something. And it’s usually along the lines of ‘Don’t die.’”

“Well then,” Derek smirked, “don’t die.”

Stiles smacked him on the shoulder. “Yes, very encouraging. Do me now, oh fearless leader.”

Derek dropped his head to rest on Stiles collarbone. “Stiles, seriously, there is absolutely nothing you could do that would make me regret being with you. We could go without sex our entire lives—”

“Please, no.”

“—and I wouldn’t care.”

“So you’d be fine with never having sex. Ever.”

“Yes.”

“What about jerking off?”

Derek lifted his head and thought a moment. “That I would have to do several times. Daily.” He smiled and captured Stiles lips in a kiss. “Or you could help me with that.”

“I would,” Stiles hummed, pulling Derek back down for another kiss. “But I’d rather have sex.”

The older man nodded. “Me too.” Derek studied him a moment longer. “So are we okay?”

Stiles breathed in deeply, releasing the tension in his muscles in a gust of minty fresh breath—he’d brushed his teeth three (no, _four_ ) times that evening, and his mouth was alight with a chilly tingling. “Yeah,” he said genuinely. “Yeah, we’re good.”

Derek’s fingers slid in as easily as if they hadn’t left, an added glob of lube slicking their way for good measure. The older man peppered Stiles’ jaw with kisses as he began scissoring his fingers again, nipping at the teen’s throat and collarbone. When a third finger finally— _slowly_ —began to ease inside, Derek sucked hard on one of Stiles’ nipples, using the fingers of his free hand to tweak the other. 

Stiles arched his back. The sensations were maddening— _literally_ driving him insane. Well, maybe not _literally_ , but almost certainly _figuratively_ and _definitely_ call for a figurative therapist. Because if there was anything in the world that Stiles didn’t mind being driven mad by, it was Derek’s fingers. 

Derek released the raised bud from his mouth with an amused noise. “Stiles,” he chuckled, “how can you _not know_ you’re talking out loud?” 

Stiles offered a lopsided grin. “Happens when I can’t concentrate.”

“Am I distracting you?” Derek asked, the fingers inside of Stiles flexing outward as they stretched him further. 

The teen’s thoughts came to a halt, and he muttered something unintelligible. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” And, suddenly, the fingers were gone. “On your side.”

“No,” Stiles had enough brain cells to say. 

“Stiles—”

“No.”

“It’ll be more comfortable if—”

“No.” 

“Will you just—”

“ _No_.”

“ _Why_?” Derek huffed, the first sign of actual frustration he’d shown all night.

“I want to see you,” Stiles admitted, his face coloring as the words sunk in. _Nice, buddy. Real friggin’ manly. You sure you got balls down there? Maybe you should check._

Derek’s shoulders slumped as his resolve went right out the window. “Okay. But we take it slow. If something doesn’t feel right, you tell me _right away_. Yeah?” Stiles nodded. “All right. Give me your pillow.”

Stiles complied, and Derek lifted the teen’s hips, placing it beneath him before letting him settle again. Yeah, that thing was getting washed as soon as possible. 

“And you’re sure? About the condom, I mean?” Derek asked hesitantly. 

They’d discussed it. Argued over it. And discussed it again before finally deciding not to use one. Derek obviously wouldn’t have any diseases, and unless Stiles was sneaking off into the night and sharing dirty needles with drug junkies, neither would he. And since the whole _forever_ thing was, you know… _forever_ , it just didn’t seem like an issue. 

Stiles was old enough to make his own decisions, and this was one of them. Though if his parents ever asked, he had a half-full box of condoms in his dresser drawer. No way were his dads ready for the whole _mate_ conversation just yet.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Stiles said without any hesitation. Because he was. And this was it. _Finally._

Derek squeezed a generous amount of lube into his hand, giving his erection a few good pumps to coat it thoroughly. “Put your legs over my shoulders,” he panted, shifting closer as Stiles raised his legs and hooked his knees over Derek’s broad shoulders. Derek shifted closer still, placing one hand on the bed to brace himself as he leaned forward and using the other hand to line himself up with Stiles’ entrance. 

“Ready?” he asked. One last confirmation. Derek’s chivalry was unmatched.

Stiles nodded, holding his breath as the head of Derek’s cock pressed against the stretched ring of muscle. The moment it entered him, the teen’s hands flew up to latch onto Derek’s biceps. 

“Holy—” He bit his lower lip to keep the curse at bay. 

“Does it hurt?” the older man asked instantly, and Stiles shook his head. 

“No, just…different. A lot bigger than your fingers.”

Derek smirked. “I should hope so.” He slid in further, slowly and carefully. Stiles could tell it was agonizing for him to go this slow. Hopefully in the future they could be a bit rougher. For Derek’s sake, of course. 

“Still okay?”

Stile was starting to feel a burn. The flush was dissipating from his erection, and his grip on Derek was tightening, which was what must have prompted the older man to ask. 

“Fine,” the teen grit out curtly, and Derek scowled, stopping altogether. 

“Stiles—”

“Stopping makes it worse,” Stiles grunted, wiggling uncomfortably. “Just keep going.”

“I’m pulling out,” Derek declared. 

“ _No_.” Stiles was quick to tug on the older man’s biceps. “No, Derek. I’m fine.” Derek offered him a pointed look. “I _will_ be fine—if you _keep going_.”

Derek did not look happy about it at all. But he did keep going, sliding in awful inch by awful inch until he was able to lean over Stiles completely. 

The teen’s legs fell from Derek’s shoulders to the crooks of his elbows, spreading Stiles wider, bringing Derek in deeper. And Stiles sucked in a breath and closed his eyes because it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant feeling. 

“Yes,” he whispered, feeling Derek relax as he slid in the last couple of centimeters. 

Derek Hale was now embedded to the hilt in one Stiles Winchester. 

“This makes me de-virgined, right?” Stiles mumbled. “I think this, right here, revokes my virgin status. _Permanently_. No take-backs.”

Derek laughed, the vibrations ringing through places that Stiles had no idea vibrations could ring through, and bent down to press their mouths together in a brief kiss. “Yes, Stiles. I’m pretty sure this means you’re not a virgin anymore.”

“Oh, good. Remind me to update my Facebook profile.”

“Stiles?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want me to move now?”

“If you think it’s best.”

“I do,” Derek said with a nod. “Unless you want the lube to dry.”

Stiles moved his hands to the back of Derek’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss and reveling in the way it stretched him just a bit further, made way for a new angle he was _sure_ he would absolutely like. “Well, we can’t have that,” he said quietly. 

Derek shook his head, pulling out of Stiles a fraction of an inch and pressing back in carefully. 

The burn was there, but it was bearable. “I think I can handle a little more than that.”

Derek obliged, pulling out a good couple of inches and thrusting in hard enough to make Stiles’ head hit the headboard.

“Sorry,” the older man chuckled, not sounding the least bit apologetic. He grabbed hold of Stiles’ hips and tugged him down the bed a bit to keep it from happening again. 

“Yeah, you better be, buddy,” Stiles said, tightening his muscles around Derek’s cock and ignoring the burn in favor of watching Derek’s mouth drop open. 

“Shit,” the older man cursed. 

“Uh-huh,” Stiles gloated, and Derek glared. “Don’t give me that face, sourwolf. I’m actually starting to like this.” 

As if to confirm the statement, his cock gave an excited jolt, nearly half hard again. Derek couldn’t keep the smile from his face. Rocking his hips back and forth, he began a slow rhythm that had Stiles fully hard and panting in no time. 

“So,” Stiles said conversationally, his voice stilted by Derek’s thrusts, “this is the whole mating thing, huh?”

“Were you expecting something else?”

The teen attempted a one-shoulder shrug. “I dunno. A ritual. Chanting. Maybe some body painting in blood.”

Derek smirked. “Does that kind of stuff turn you on?”

“Maybe.”

“We can try the body paint thing sometime. Maybe chocolate instead of blood.”

“I thought you couldn’t eat chocolate.”

“That’s dogs, Stiles,” Derek corrected, his breaths becoming shorter and sweat starting to gleam on his skin. 

Stiles grinned. “Dog style? Yeah, we can try that sometime, too.”

A growl rose in Derek’s throat, and he bent down to crash their mouths together, sloppy, wet, and hungry. “Is this—okay?” he asked in between kisses as he began to thrust faster, pull out further to lengthen his strokes. 

Stiles could feel it, just barely—the place he wanted Derek to hit the most. It was almost perfect. 

He raised his hips to meet Derek’s, and then there it was. Only it wasn’t sparks behind his eyes this time—it was fireworks, missiles, every weapon of mass destruction known to man exploding in his skull. And each thrust brought more and more. It was like his body was on fire—a good fire. A bright, white light of warmth and amazing energy, something too big to contain and it was beating against the walls to find a way out.

It was friggin’ awesome.

“Shit, Der. Theretherethere, _God_ yes!” He cried out as Derek gave a particularly fast and hard snap of his hips, nearly shoving him up the bed again. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna…Derek, I’m—”

The older man wrapped his hand around Stiles’ leaking cock, barely giving it a few tugs before the teen was arching off the bed, a sticky string of cum shooting over his stomach and chest. Derek stroked him through what was the most amazing orgasm of his life, mirroring the action with thrusts that were starting to become erratic. 

Stiles gasped as he felt hot cords of semen fill him, warm him from within. Derek stilled, and for a moment, the teen panicked. He’d read about canine sex and knew more than he’d ever wanted to know about _knotting_. It was something he’d asked Derek about from the start, and the older man hadn’t been altogether sure. It wasn’t something he’d ever discussed with his parents before they’d died, and the amount of mocking that would ensue were he to ask Peter would be far from worth it.

But as the seconds ticked by and nothing happened, both men seemed to relax, Derek carefully pulling out and collapsing beside the teen. Neither one spoke for a long while, choosing to lay in the silence until Stiles shivered and pressed himself to Derek’s side. 

“Derek, that…that was—”

“ _Amazing_.”

“— _awesome_.”

They looked at one another and laughed, full-body laughter that shook the bed and filled the room. 

Stiles wrapped his arms around the man. “So, this means we’re mates, right?”

Derek turned in Stiles’ arms so that they were facing each other, one hand resting on the teen’s hip and the other moving up to cup his cheek. “Yes. We’re mates now.”

Stiles couldn’t hide the grin—didn’t want to—that graced his lips, kissing Derek until his lungs burned for air…and then just a bit longer. “I love you,” he said, the words quiet, reverent.

Derek pulled him close, pressing his lips to the teen’s ear. “I love you, too,” he whispered. “Happy Birthday, Stiles…And, in case you were wondering, my middle name is ‘Prescott.’”

Stiles laughed.

0 o 0 o 0

3 Months Later:

He only wished he’d known it would be one of the last laughs he had with Derek. 

“…don’t’ go.”


	2. A Dream. A Nightmare. An Awakening.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mouth went dry, his eyes filled with new tears, and his bottom lip trembled as he uttered something he hadn’t in a very long time. 
> 
> “Daddy.”

The hand on his shoulder was warm and comforting, and he hated it because he shouldn’t be—he shouldn’t be warm or comforted while Derek’s body was cold and dead in his arms. And he turned to tell this warm, comforting person just that. He turned to tell them to fuck off because what the hell did they know about his loss? What did they know about losing the one person he was made to be with forever? 

_Forever?_

…or what was _supposed_ to be forever.

He turned to tell this person all these things and more. But a pair of _blueblue_ eyes stopped him. His mouth went dry, his eyes filled with new tears, and his bottom lip trembled as he uttered something he hadn’t in a very long time. 

“Daddy.”

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel’s heart ached at the name, his instincts blazing forward and clutching Stiles to him as tightly as possible. If only he could fix this, if only he could spare his son this kind of pain, torture. 

“Stiles, I can’t bring him back. I am so very sorry.”

Stiles shook, his fingers uncurling from around Derek’s body and moving instead to grip the angel’s trench coat. It wasn’t often that he wore the beloved garment these days. But moments like these generally called for familiarity, comfort. 

“You can,” Stiles protested desperately. “You can, Dad. Please, you haven’t even…you haven’t even tried.”

“Stiles,” Castiel whispered, and it surprised him to find that his voice wavered, that his hands trembled as his fingers carded through his son’s hair. “Stiles, I can’t. Derek…People like him don’t go to heaven or hell.”

Stiles stiffened in his arms. “Purgatory,” he said, his tone flat. “He went to Purgatory. Why?” He pushed away from the angel, searching his eyes for answers that just weren’t there. “He was a good person! He did good things! It wasn’t his fault he was born a werewolf.”

Stiles was right, someone like Derek did not deserve a place like Purgatory. And perhaps years ago Castiel would have disagreed, would have trusted his father’s will implicitly. But his time away from home, away from his blindly-following siblings, had made it very clear that things were far from perfect. And maybe it _wasn’t_ God’s will that Derek end up in Purgatory—God had been out of the picture for quite some time, after all. But it was _someone’s._

And it was wrong. 

“I will do everything in my power to fix this, Stiles. I promise.”

With these words, he sent out a silent, pleading message.

_Gabriel._

0 o 0 o 0

Gabriel heard the desperation in his brother’s voice, knew that he would be arriving on a difficult scene. 

But he hadn’t imagined this. 

There were no birds chirping, no animals rustling. No noise except for cries muffled against a dirty trench coat. The trees around the small clearing were dead. This had been some very powerful mojo, not the kind of thing Gabriel usually got himself mixed up in. After all, the last time this kind of power had been used was when a certain silly, love-struck angel had pulled a certain brooding hunter from the bowels of hell, back from the dead.

And speaking of dead….

“Shit.”

Derek’s body lay in the center of the clearing, leaves and mud strewn over his tattered clothing, his torn skin. There was blood—a lot of it. And most of it was covering the young teen sobbing in Castiel’s arms. 

There were other people, other werewolves, standing further off, young and in shock. No threat lay within the woods now. 

“Cas,” he said quietly, stepping forward and disturbing leaves as he did so. The forest seemed to waken with movement. Birds and animals scattered from trees and hiding places. Several pairs of yellow eyes turned and glared at him accusingly, as if he had been the one to do this. 

He continued forward anyway, leaning down and placing a hand gently on Stiles back. “Cas, what happened?”

“I need you to take him,” Castiel said quietly, reluctantly starting to release the teen. 

“No!” Stiles shouted, grabbing hold of Castiel’s shirt and tugging harshly. “No! Daddy—”

“Shh,” Castiel said, drawing the noise out as he lay a hand over Stiles’ eyes and closed his own. Stiles went limp in his arms. “Sleep, son. It will be all right.”

Gabriel gathered the gangly boy in his arms as Cas handed him over. 

“Dean is waiting for you at our home,” the dark-haired angel explained, fingers carding through Stiles’ hair as he spoke. “I’ll join you shortly. I have to…take care of things here.”

Gabriel nodded, waiting while Cas leaned down and placed a kiss on Stiles’ forehead before the clearing disappeared and the Winchester’s living room appeared around him and his passenger. Dean was there already, chewing on a thumbnail.

“Stiles!” he called, instantly in front of the angel and taking the teen into his own arms. “What happened? Was he hurt?”

“No,” Gabriel said, helping the hunter situate the young man on the sofa. “He’s fine, just sleeping.”

“Whose blood is this?” Dean demanded, fingers fumbling with the buttons of Stiles’ outer shirt.

Gabriel swallowed before answering with a quiet, “Derek’s.”

Dean’s fumbling stopped, and he turned to look at the angel with an indecipherable look. “Is he…?”

“Dead.”

The hunter’s jaw tightened. It was a familiar look, one that Gabriel himself had been on the receiving end of countless times. And it wasn’t a good look for anyone who put it there. 

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But you should have seen the woods…The clearing was completely dead, Dean. The trees, even the leaves on the ground were black. Something seriously _wrong_ went down there.” He paused a moment, watching the thoughts flitter behind the other man’s eyes. “Whatever you’re planning, I want in.”

“This isn’t a joke, Gabe,” Dean snapped.

“I know,” the angel insisted. “Cas has already got a plan—a _stupid_ one, I might add. I saw it before I booked it here with Stiles.”

The hunter frowned. “I’ll talk to Cas when he gets here. I’m gonna take Stiles upstairs.”

“I’ve got it,” Gabe said, reaching forward, but Dean stopped him with a shake of his head. 

“No, I’ll take him.” Gathering the teen in his arms, he stood with a grunt, his knees popping. He wasn’t as young as he used to be— _neither_ of the Winchesters were. It was a miracle they’d survived as long as they had, considering their line of work. It was hard to believe that after everything they’d been through, they could have lives that were almost semi- _normal_. 

Dean faltered at the bottom of the stairs, turning back towards the angel with a worried look. “Thanks, Gabe,” he said sincerely. 

“Yeah,” Gabriel sighed, watching the hunter trek the stairs slowly while whispering apologies into Stiles’ ear, “no problem.”

0 o 0 o 0

_“No, no, Derek, no!” Stiles pleaded desperately, shoes barely touching the ground as he weaved his way through the well-known maze of the forest. It was something new he’d picked up lately, a bond that had started to grow between Derek and him ever since they’d mated. Derek knew the forest, so Stiles knew the forest. Derek was in the forest, and Stiles knew where to find him._

_Derek was in trouble…_

_…so Stiles ran._

_It was raining when he reached the clearing, big droplets that soaked his clothes through in an instant and forced him to blink wildly as he searched for—_

_“Derek!”_

_He fell to his knees at the man’s side, tears springing forward and mixing with the rain. No, this wasn’t right, this couldn’t be happening. Derek was_ his— _his and no one else’s. How_ dare _someone else touch him, do…_ this _to him._

_“Derek?” he asked, his voice barely a sound above the rain that was starting to come down in sheets._

_Derek’s eyes opened, and Stiles’ entire body rejoiced._

_“Sti—” the older man began, but the name was cut off by the thick sound of blood bubbling at the back of his throat. He took a gurgled breath and tried again. “St—”_

_“Don’t, Derek. Please,” Stiles said, his face contorting as he took in the welts and deep gashes littering Derek’s body. “Don’t talk, just…heal yourself. It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”_

_“No,” Derek said, bloodied, strengthless fingers curling into the teen’s hooded sweatshirt. “Ca-Can’t….”_

_“What do you mean you_ can’t _?” Stiles demanded, his gaze flying over Derek’s body again, over wounds that were angry and ugly and gaping and…not healing. “Why? Derek, you have to heal yourself. This isn’t…You can’t….”_

_Derek closed his eyes against the rain and swallowed thickly. “W-Wolfsbane,” he managed, choking on the word. Blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth, down his chin, washed away with rain._

_Stiles leaned over the older man, blocking the rain from his face and placing a hand on his cheek. “Hey,” he said softly around the lump in his throat, a trembling smile lifting the corners of his lips when Derek opened his eyes again. “I’m gonna take care of this. I’m gonna take care of you. Don’t move.”_

_“Stiles,” Derek started, raising a hand as the teen leaned away._

_“It’s okay. Stay still.”_

_“No,” the older man protested weakly as Stiles closed his eyes._

_He could feel the warmth in his fingers, believed that it had the power to heal his mate, to take away his pain._

_Because that’s what it was all about—belief._

_The warmth stretched, grew until he had enough to push in Derek’s direction, to cover his wounds, to close the skin. He knew what he had to do—it was simple. But a searing pain stopped him. He cried out, slumped forward and clutched at his own stomach, at the wound that had very suddenly ripped open his own skin as he closed Derek’s._

_“No,” Derek said, finding the strength to clutch the teen’s face between his hands, turn it so they could see each other. “No, Stiles.”_

_Stiles took a few steadying breaths, trembling hands pressing into wet leaves and mud as he pushed himself up. “I-It’s okay. I…I did something wrong. I’ll try again.”_

_Derek made to protest, but the younger man already had his hands on Derek’s stomach again, was already closing his eyes and pouring every ounce of belief he had into—_

_“Ah!” he yelled, doubling over as more pain ripped through him._

_“You can’t,” Derek said, breaths shallowing and words beginning to slur. “Stiles…you can’t.”_

_“My dad,” Stiles wheezed, raising his head and nodding desperately. “My dad will help. I’ll—”_

_“No,” Derek said firmly. “He can’t…He isn’t strong enough for this.”_

_“Then Uncle Gabe—”_

_“Stiles,” Derek choked, his back arching slightly as more blood pooled into his mouth. “Th—no time.”_

_“Derek,_ don’t _,” Stiles sobbed, fingers clenching what little fabric remained of the man’s tattered shirt._

_“I love you,” Derek breathed, his eyes glassy, his hand falling away to the wet, muddy ground. He didn’t move again._

_Stiles felt it, felt his mate’s heart stop; felt it as if it was his own—_ wished _it was his own._

_Something in his chest tightened, something hot and angry. It expanded, grew until he thought he might burst. Would he burst? Would he die and be with Derek? He didn’t care. Right then, he’d welcome any sort of death. Because as the warmth began to seep from Derek’s body, it began to seep from his own._

_He would be cold. And numb. Forever. What kind of life was that? What sort of life could he live without the man—the only man—he was meant to be with?_

_Cold._

_Lonely._

_Forever._

_Stiles dragged in a ragged breath, let the cold air fill his lungs until there was no more to fill._

_No more._

_Ever._

_A burst of energy whooshed from him as he screamed. It was like fire; it was rage and mourning, and he didn’t ever want it to stop. Why should it? There was nothing left._

_Nothing._

_Left._

_His anger consumed the clearing, leaving behind blackblackblack in its wake. The trees, the leaves, the earth itself would pay until he found who was responsible._

_‘Stiles, no,’ a voice said in his head, and, suddenly, the strength in his body disappeared._

_It was quiet again. Cold._

_And Derek was dead._

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles woke, and there was pain. No gradual slip into agony, no build until it was unbearable. Just there, waiting for him, as if it had been at his bedside waiting for him to wake. 

Bed. 

He was in his bed, his room. Where were the woods? Where were the blood-soaked clothes he’d been wearing? Where was—

“Derek,” he said, his throat closing around the name. 

Maybe it had been a dream. Maybe Derek was in his desk chair waiting for him to sit up and demand he get under the covers and be Stiles’ personal heater. Maybe he hadn’t seen his mate die gurgling on his own blood. 

“Stiles?” someone asked quietly, the bed dipping at his side. 

Maybe. 

“Derek,” Stiles croaked again, clenching his eyes shut as fingers stroked through his hair, living the lie for just a moment longer. 

“Sorry, kiddo,” his Uncle Gabe’s voice said regretfully. 

The teen opened his eyes, tears spilling down to his pillow. “He’s…Derek’s….”

“I know,” the angel replied with a nod, sighing as he continued to run a hand through Stiles hair. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Why…Why does everyone keep saying that?” Stiles tried to sit up, but Gabe put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not. It’s not okay. Derek…” His throat closed, and he gasped for breath.

“Take it easy,” his uncle said, hand moving to Stiles’ chest. 

“Don’t!” Stiles snatched the hand and moved it away. “Don’t. I…I need to feel this. I want to.”

“Stiles, you can’t do this to yourself.”

“Why not?” The young man turned away, feeling all of five-years-old. “Why shouldn’t I feel this way about…about….”

Stiles felt a hand grasp his arm, felt a presence in his mind as his memories were shuffled through. He sobbed as images of the night of their mating surfaced, as the hand on his arm tightened. 

“Oh, Stiles,” Gabe breathed. “What were you thinking?” 

The teen whipped around, knocking the hand away. “What you _told me_ ,” he accused. “I fell in _love_.”

Gabriel raised his hands in surrender. “That’s not—”

“What did you mean, then?” Stiles interrupted angrily. “I shouldn’t have fallen for a guy like him? I shouldn’t have made such a rash decision so young? I sh-shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have….”

His uncle caught him as he slumped forward, crying into the angel’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have put yourself through this much pain.” Stiles shook his head, crying harder as Gabe rubbed circles onto his back. “Stiles…there are ways to…to make you forget.”

“No,” Stiles said quickly, sitting back against the headboard and staring at his uncle’s hands as if they might sneak up on him and wipe his thoughts completely, leaving him a vegetable for the rest of his lonely life. 

Gabriel gave him a pointed look, lowering his hands. “I’m not going to turn you into a vegetable, Stiles.” 

“I _don’t_ want to _forget_ ,” the teen hissed, his lip trembling as the pain in his chest coiled around his ribcage like a snake. “I _can’t_. Otherwise…what was the point?” 

His uncle stared at him for a long moment before nodding. “All right. All right, Stiles, just…You need to rest.” He reached forward, and Stiles cowered, shaking his head. “Nothing more. I promise. Just let me help you sleep.”

With an audible swallow—and a few more wary glances to his uncle’s hands—Stiles nodded and slid back down to his pillows. 

“It’s going to be all right,” his uncle said, reaching forward again.

Stiles closed his eyes. 

Maybe he’d wake up from this nightmare, too. 

Or not at all.

0 o 0 o 0

He woke again.

The pain was still there, but he was alone. Was that better? He couldn’t tell.

There were voices, hushed and angry, coming from downstairs. His dads. His uncles. He didn’t want to hear it; they were probably bickering about him anyway. Tugging a pillow from behind his head, he made to smash it down on his face. 

But then he heard it. A name.

_Derek._

And just like that, he was hunched over the floor vent on the other side of the room. He had a moment where a floor board creaked, where the talking downstairs stopped. But after a long, quiet minute of holding his breath, the conversation resumed. 

“It’s suicide,” his pop said, and Stiles could picture the gesture that went along with the words. 

“It’s _possible_ ,” his dad countered, quiet, even tone holding patience and confidence. 

“Not for you,” Pop insisted. “You can’t go back there. The Leviathan would eat you alive.”

Leviathan? But they were in….

“Then I won’t go. But _someone_ must.”

“Why?” That was Uncle Sam. “Why are we discussing this at all?” 

“For Stiles,” Uncle Gabe said sternly. “We’re doing this for Stiles.”

“This is _ridiculous_ ,” Pop said, the sound of his fist banging on the kitchen table making Stiles jump. “It’s one person. He’ll find someone else.”

“Would you find someone else, were it me?” His dad’s question made even _Stiles_ feel guilty, made his insides twist because he knew he never would. 

Never.

“Cas, that’s different, and you know it,” Pop argued, but his resolve was wavering. 

“Why? Because he’s young? Because he can’t possibly feel emotions so strongly at his age?” 

Yes! Go Dad!

There was a long pause, and Stiles was almost afraid that they could hear his heart banging against the floorboards. _The Tell Tale Heart_ was now his life. Soon he would be muttering about hearing things under the carpet, and he would go insane. 

No, nevermind. He was already insane. Because what he thought his parents and his uncles were talking about was—

“And you think bringing Derek back from Purgatory is our best option here?”

Stiles stopped breathing, his heart swelled. His parents were going to bring Derek back. His _parents_ were going to bring Derek _back_. 

Derek was coming _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for this chapter to be so late. I promise, I'll try and get the next one up as soon as possible! Thanks for sticking with me, you guys!


	3. A Decision. A Wake. A Departure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had to be brave. He had to find Derek. He was here to find his mate and take him home. He was here. And he wasn’t leaving until he got what he came for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, guys!!! i really wanted to get this chapter up sooner, but my internet browser has been a bitch lately…*glares at browser* anyway, here it is, and more to follow soon!! thanks for sticking with me!

Stiles stayed crouched by the vent for all of a second more before jumping to his feet and bolting from his room. There was a nauseating pounding in his temples, making the hallway churn beneath his feet. He nearly tripped as he barreled his way down the stairs but caught himself on the banister, bare feet smacking hard against the tiled hallway before he slammed the dining room door open. Four gazes were already pointed in his direction when he skidded into the room. 

“Stiles?” his pop started, but the teen ignored the worry in the man’s tone and waved him off before he could say anything more. 

“You’re going to get Derek?” he panted, glancing around the room wildly at concerned faces. They looked like they’d been caught conspiring against him. But they weren’t—they _weren’t._ “You’re…You’re….”

“Stiles, calm down,” his dad said gently, stepping forward and placing a hand on his arm. 

He could feel the tightness in his chest loosening, his breaths coming easier and the world dulling away. No, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to pretend it wasn’t happening. This was a pain that his father couldn’t— _shouldn’t_ —take away. 

The teen pulled from the angel’s grip, back hitting the door. “I want to go with you.”

“No,” Dean said, the first to protest—but Stiles could see his sentiment was shared. 

“I can help,” the young man argued, straightening and standing at full height as if it proved his statement. He _could_ help. They had no idea the power he hid inside himself. 

“ _No_ ,” his pop repeated. “We’re not discussing this. Go to your room and rest, Stiles.”

“Don’t pull the _Dad Card_ on me! If you’re going to Purgatory—”

“Nothing has even been decided yet.”

“Then I’ll go by myself. I’ll find a way there, and I’ll bring Derek back.” He would. Just to prove them wrong, just to show them he wasn’t some kid, damn it.

“Don’t be _stupid_ ,” his pop said childishly. Stiles’ anger flared forward, bubbling in his veins and pushing itself outward until the lights began to flicker. 

“And don’t pretend you don’t _know what I can do_!” he shouted angrily, pulling in deep breaths until his clenched fists stopped shaking and the lights over the dining room table and in the kitchen evened out into their normal, albeit somewhat dimmer, lighting. 

0 o 0 o 0

Dean pressed his lips into thin lines and furrowed his eyebrows. Sam, Gabe, and Cas had looked at the lights suspiciously and with more than a little worry when they’d started their own miniature strobe impersonation. But Dean hadn’t taken his eyes off the teen. 

Off his son. 

This was dangerous. It had been when Sam had started drinking demon blood to fuel his psychic powers, and it was now. Dean hadn’t known _what_ to think the night of the alpha attack at the Hale house. But the more he tried to ignore it, the more he seemed to see it. The more he _remembered_ seeing it, and not just since Stiles had become involved with the local wolf pack….

Whatever Stiles was into had to stop. 

“Stiles,” he said as calmly as he could muster, “go to your room. Now.”

“No,” the teen said defiantly, crossing his arms and setting a stance that clearly stated there was very little Dean could do to get him to leave, short of physically removing him. 

“Stiles,” Cas started gently, his never-ending patience bleeding into the name, “we can talk about this in the morning.”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles said again. He never talked to Cas like that. Until recently, he’d never really spoken to _either_ of them like that. 

A pressure started to build behind Dean’s left eye. “Stop acting like a _child_ ,” he demanded, more out of irritation than actual anger—though it was beginning to get difficult to distinguish between the two. Something in his chest tightened, flushing the warmth from his veins until a coldness seeped into his bones. 

_Stopstopstop_ , he told himself. _Keep it in check. He’s your son. Your_ son. _You do something you regret, you’ll never be able to live with yourself._

“Dean,” Castiel said softly, placing a hand on his arm, “come with me into the other room.” He had a worried look on his face, like he knew something was about to happen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabe step closer to Sam, fingers tangling into the fabric of the taller man’s jacket—ready to whisk him away should things become a little too hot and heavy, probably. 

“I’m not a _child_ ,” Stiles said, stepping forward and pointing at the man with more anger in his eyes than Dean could ever remember seeing, “so stop treating me like I’m not capable of taking care of myself.”

“I think I have a right to protect you! Your my _son_.”

“No I’m—”

“ _Enough_!” Cas’ voice boomed, the room itself vibrating with the word.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles took a step back, eyes wide as the words he was about to say registered, and his stomach twisted painfully. He hadn’t meant…. Of _course_ Dean was his…. How could he….

“Pop,” he said, his voice small as he shook his head and blinked furiously, “I didn’t…I—”

“Stiles,” his dad interrupted firmly. “To your room, please.”

Stiles swallowed hard, offering his pop an apologetic look before turning and leaving the room. He meant to turn onto the staircase at the end of the hall, meant to go to his room and wallow as he had been told, meant to accept his fate as the son of two men who knew the world for what it really was and would never stop trying to keep it from him. 

Meant to.

But, suddenly, his hand was grasping the doorknob of the front door, his bare feet were pounding against concrete until he felt cold, damp grass beneath him, then the crunch of dead leaves. His lungs burned, his muscles ached, his feet stung.

And he was glad. Because, if only for a short while, it drowned out the roaring numbness in his heart.

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel squeezed his husband’s shoulder as the front door slammed, giving the man a reassuring nod when he turned to him with a questioning look. “He’ll be fine. His friends are following him.”

“You mean the _pack_ ,” Dean grunted disapprovingly, turning back to the table. “They’ve been camped outside our house for the last day and a half.”

“They’re worried,” Gabriel said, pulling one of the chairs back and seating himself, arms crossed.

“They should be,” Dean muttered, following suit and rubbing at his forehead tiredly. “They have no alpha. They’re basically up for grabs to any high-and-mighty that passes through town.”

“What about Peter?” Sam asked, leaning his forearms onto the back of Gabe’s chair. “Derek’s uncle? Isn’t he technically the new alpha? He’s the only Hale left, now.”

“Yeah, but Derek is the one who turned them.” Dean shrugged and sat back in the chair heavily. “He can choose to reject them as pack, if he wants to. They don’t belong to him.”

“They’re just _kids_.” Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “Derek took them in for a reason—because they didn’t have anyone else. If Peter rejects them—”

“They don’t have anywhere else to go. I got it,” Dean snapped, closing his eyes and shaking his head with a sigh. “Guess that leaves us with one option.”

“Which we were discussing, anyway,” Gabriel pointed out helpfully, offering Dean a wicked grin when the hunter’s eyes snapped open and he leveled the angel with a glare.

Castiel, hand still on Dean’s shoulder, frowned as a thought occurred to him, and Gabriel perked up across the table, eyes glittering with interest as his grin widened. “Oh, really?” the trickster asked—cackled, more like—and then Castiel was leveled with two more confused gazes.

He sighed. “It would be…beneficial to this particular situation.”

“You mean if we decide to pull Derek’s werewolf ass out of Purgatory,” Gabriel clarified. 

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows. “Yes. If we decide to do so.”

“What would be beneficial?” Dean asked warily, neck craned awkwardly to look up at the angel.

Taking an unnecessary breath, Castiel rolled his shoulders back, reveling in the stretch of muscles around his shoulder blades. “I think that, if we were to consider pulling Derek from Purgatory—seeing as Dean is against my return—that Gabriel would make a suitable substitute in my place.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly, glancing between the two angels. “Is that it?”

Castiel pursed his lips as his brother chuckled and raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, Cas,” Gabriel said, “is that it?”

 _You are not being helpful in the least_ , he shot in Gabriel’s direction, which only served to make the angel laugh harder.

“It will be difficult to find Derek without a guide.”

“A guide?” Sam asked, though something in the turned-down corners of his mouth told Castiel he was beginning to understand.

“Someone who shares a strong connection with him,” Castiel explained, and Dean was already shaking his head.

“No,” he said. “Absolutely not. I can’t _believe_ you’re even suggesting—”

“He’s not a child, Dean,” Castiel countered calmly. “He would make your return faster—”

“No.”

“—he knows how to handle himself, as you’ve seen—”

“No.”

“—and he would have both you and Gabriel there to protect him.”

“I am not dragging _our son_ into a pit of _monsters_ , Cas!” Dean shouted, standing from his chair and breaking from Castiel’s grip. The hunter raised his hand, rubbing it over his face as the other one moved to his hip. It was the stance he took when he was exhausted, when there didn’t seem to be any more options…when he was actually considering what was being said to him.

“You’ll bring him back, Dean,” Castiel said quietly, and Dean turned, shaking his head as his eyes filled with rebellious tears.

“I couldn’t protect _you_.” His voice broke on the last word, and he dropped his chin to his chest, rubbing at his eyes furiously and turning again to shield his pain from them. 

Castiel was at his side instantly, hands curling around his shoulders and pulling him into a fierce embrace. “You did, Dean. We’re here. We’re both here.”

“What if something happens? What if I can’t protect him? What if—”

Castiel pulled away enough to place his hands on either side of Dean’s face, thumbs wiping at stray tears. “I have faith in you. I have _always_ had faith in you.” He presses their foreheads together. “You can do this.”

Dean took a breath, exhaling it in a shuddered gust as he nodded twice and swallowed audibly. 

“Plus,” Gabriel voiced smugly from the table, “you’ll have me.”

Dean huffed and rolled his eyes, but Castiel saw one corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. “Yeah, we _might_ have a chance if you’re with us.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles didn’t know where he was going until the trees opened and the Hale house was in full view. Doubling over, he closed his eyes and breathed, waiting for the tell-tale sound of footfalls behind him. Like Derek, he could sense the pack, and they’d been following him since he left the house. They’d called his name a few times, but he couldn’t stop— _literally_ couldn’t. Something had drawn him here.

True to his expectations, Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and Scott emerged from the woods. 

“You’re getting faster,” Isaac complimented quietly, patting him on the back. 

But Stiles’ focus was solely on the house as he straightened and panted. “Where…Where did my dad bury him?” When there was no answer, he turned, looking at each person as they fidgeted uncomfortably. “What?”

“He didn’t,” Scott explained grimly. “Derek’s…upstairs.”

Stiles’ stomach plummeted.

“In his room,” Erica supplied, breath hitching when her gaze turned back to the house.

Stiles was inside before anymore could be said. His father hadn’t even…? What was the point of that? I mean, if he’d planned on getting Derek from Purgatory, then yeah, he supposed it made sense. But wouldn’t Derek’s body just…rot, or something?

God, he didn’t want to think about rotting bodies. He didn’t want to think about _Derek’s_ rotting body. He didn’t want to think about Derek.

He didn’t want to think.

The pack followed him in, and Stiles was only vaguely aware that Jackson had showed up, too. Reluctantly, probably, but the pull of pack was strong. And Stiles needed them— _all_ of them—if he was going to find the strength to do this.

It was only outside of Derek’s room that he hesitated, hand mere inches from the doorknob as he froze completely. Derek was on the other side. Derek’s _body_ was on the other side. It hadn’t been long since he’d last seen him, but there had to be differences already. The process of decomposition flittered across Stiles’ thoughts unwarranted, and he closed his eyes and turned his head away as if he could ignore them. But he couldn’t. His mind didn’t work that way.

The body would cool—one degree colder every hour—until it matched the environment around it. _Rigor mortis_ would start around three hours, setting in fully at twelve and would last for three days before softening to start decomposing. Within six to twelve hours, _livor mortis_ would set in, the blood pooling to the lowest part of the body. Then _putrefaction_ —the body’s cells would burst, release gases, making the body bloat and tear itself apar—

“Stiles.” There were hands on his shoulders, his arms, his back. 

He wasn’t alone. He could do this.

His fingers wrapped around warm metal, the knob twisted, and he entered the room. 

No smell—at least not one of a decomposing body. It smelled like Derek’s room, like Derek’s cologne and Derek’s dirty clothes and Derek. Derek…Derek’s _body_ was on the bed—a new bed they’d picked out together two months ago when Stiles finally got sick of a flat mattress and a pile of blankets on the floor—and he looked…he looked like Derek. No rigor mortis—or livor mortis, for that matter. No putrefaction. No decomposition. 

He could be sleeping, if not for the lack of breathing and steady heart beat that Stiles used to fall asleep to every night.

Erica stepped up to his right, took his hand, and brought it up to her cheek, rubbing at it gently. It was comfort and sorrow and…respect. They’d poked fun at Stiles for being Derek’s mate, the _pack mom_ , but Stiles could see now what kind of responsibility that held. Their alpha was gone. And he was all they had left, all that was keeping them together. 

Stepping forward, he felt their presence follow him to the bed. He sat beside Derek, hesitantly reaching out and running his fingers through the older man’s still-soft hair and down his stubbled cheek. “How…?” he started, lost in the feel of pliant skin that didn’t feel as cold as it should. 

“Your dad,” Boyd said, deep voice raspy as he attempted a whisper. “He said…something about stasis. Until he can fix this.”

“Stiles,” Scott started, and Stiles heard him take a breath, steady his nerves, “what did he mean? Fix what?”

Stiles turned to his friends, hand resting on Derek’s shoulder. “He was talking about going to Purgatory,” he explained, watching hope begin to brighten their eyes, “to get Derek back.”

“Can he?” Isaac asked eagerly, dropping to a crouch beside the bed and stringing his fingers into the fabric of Stiles’ hoodie. 

Stiles didn’t know, hadn’t even cared to ask how it was possible to get there. Or back. But if anyone could do it, his parents could. “Yes,” he said confidently. “I’m going to make sure of it.” He looked around at each of them in turn, even Jackson, who was hovering by the door looking sullen and hopeful at the same time. “I’m going to make this right.”

The atmosphere shifted, and the wolves raised their heads, sniffing at the air while Stiles looked to the door and frowned. 

“Your pop’s here,” Scott said, and Stiles nodded, standing from the bed and absently making his way from the room. 

“Stay here,” he said, his bare feet making almost no sound as he padded down the hallway and down the stairs. He knew the creaky spots here, knew which boards were loose enough to warrant concern of falling through the floor. They’d done a decent job of cleaning the place up, eradicating the scent that the alpha pack had left behind when they’d attacked. At least a few rooms had electricity. And they even had a television and a Wii, thanks to Peter, who was still traveling but felt the need to send trinkets to remind them that he was still out there.

He hesitated when he reached the front porch, watching his pop approach the stairs and stop at the bottom, looking up at the house in distaste.

“Place should be condemned,” the older man muttered, shaking his head before Stiles made his way forward and stood on the top step. 

A long moment of silence later, Stiles breathed in sharply through his nose and said, “Don’t tell me I can’t go, Pop. Please…”

His pop shook his head again, and Stiles braced himself for the argument that would likely occur. But the hunter merely raised a pair of Stiles’ sneakers, saying, “I came to give you these. You kinda left in a hurry.” 

Stiles huffed, and even allowed a small smirk, before descending to the last stair, taking the shoes, and sitting down to put them on. His pop sat beside him, watching him tie double knots in his laces like he’d shown him years and years ago.

“Took you almost a month to learn to tie your shoes,” the older man said, as if reading Stiles’ thoughts. “Couldn’t sit still to save your life.”

Stiles smiled gently. “I remember when I finally did, without any help from you or dad. We went out for ice cream.” 

His pop chuckled. “You couldn’t make up your mind. Had to taste each flavor twice before you decided on—”

“Mint chocolate chip and bubble gum,” Stiles finished. “Still convinced it’s the best ice cream combination ever.”

Looking down at his wringing hands, his pop sighed. “Sure as hell was a lot simpler when all we had to worry about was getting you to concentrate long enough to tie your shoes.”

The teen closed his eyes and shook his head. “Pop, about what I said earlier…or _almost_ said earlier—”

“Listen, Stiles.” It was a command. Not an overly harsh one, but one that caught the young man’s attention and made him sit up a little.

“Okay.”

His pop patted the tops of his thighs nervously a couple of times before standing and starting to pace. “Rule One: You stick to me like glue, do you hear?” he said quickly, curtly. “If something big, bad, and/or ugly shows up, you get behind me or your uncle and stay there until I say so.”

… _Huh?_ Stiles opened his mouth to state his confusion, but the hunter continued, gesturing with his hands frantically—a habit he’d picked up from Uncle Sammy, no doubt.

“Rule Two: Do not question me. If I say run, you run. Even if it means leaving me or your uncle behind.”

_What?_

“Rule Three: _I_ am in charge, _not_ your Uncle Gabe.”

 _Wait_ … “Oh my God,” Stiles breathed, standing suddenly. “You’re taking me with you?”

“Rule Four—” his pop continued, interrupted as Stiles leaped forward, engulfing him in a hug to rival all hugs he’d previously given. To anyone. Ever.

“Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Stiles chanted, tears prickling at the backs of his eyes. “Oh, Pop, thank you!”

The older man sighed, wrapping his arms around Stiles and squeezing. “Stiles, I need you to understand something,” he said seriously. “ _You_ are my main priority. If things go badly, and I have a chance to get you out of there…Derek or no, I’m taking it.”

“Understood,” Stiles said quickly. 

Because it wouldn’t come to that. They would get to Derek, and Stiles would hold tight to his mate until they were where they both belonged. He’d made a promise.

And a Winchester didn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep.

0 o 0 o 0

“You ready?” his pop asked quietly, placing a hand on Stiles’ shoulder as the teen cinched his small pack. 

He let loose a shaky breath and bit the inside of his cheek, mentally going over the information his Uncle Gabe had briefed them with earlier.

0 o 0 o 0

_“I’ve been thinking about where we might find Derek, and I don’t think it’s going to be in Purgatory,” the angel said, several gazes shifting to him as he stuck a red sucker in his mouth._

_“What?” his pop had asked irritably. “We’re making plans to go to Purgatory, Gabe. He’d better well be there.”_

_Uncle Gabe rolled his eyes. “I mean, technically it’s not Purgatory. Sort of…Purgatory adjacent.” At the pointed looks he received, he shrugged his shoulders. “Still have to go through Purgatory to get there.”_

_“Where is he?” Stiles asked before his pop could continue arguing._

_“Elysium,” his uncle said with a lewd pop of his sucker. “A.k.a.—”_

_“The Elysian Fields?” Stiles said, jaw dropping slightly. “Those exist?”_

_“Sure, kid. Not all myth is_ myth _, you know?” Gabriel smirked and waggled his eyebrows like he’d made a naughty pun of some sort. By the blush that crept over Uncle Sammy’s cheeks, Stiles guessed it was some sort of_ inside _naughty pun._

_“I mean, like, the Greek version of an afterlife? Seriously?” he continued in awe. “It’s supposed to be for…for the righteous and heroic and—”_

_“Sounds like it has Derek written all over it,” the angel said, putting his feet up on the table._

_Pop grunted in disapproval. “So how do we get there? You can’t just…zap us in?”_

_Uncle Gabe twirled the sucker in his mouth a couple times. “I can get us as close to the entrance as possible, but I can’t actually get us in.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Actually, only one of us can get through at all.”_

_“What?” his pop demanded._

_Eyebrow still raised, his uncle leveled Stiles with bright eyes and a smirk. “Think you’re up to it, kiddo?”_

_Stiles bit his bottom lip, nodding despite the drop in his stomach. “What do I have to do? Once I get through?”_

_Uncle Gabe shrugged. “Get him and get out.”_

_Pop narrowed his eyes. “That simple?”_

_“I’ll take care of the hard stuff,” Gabriel assured. “Getting us there and finding a way out. Dean can navigate through Purgatory and take care of the big bads.” His uncle smiled at him. “All you gotta do, kiddo, is think happy thoughts and point us in the right direction. Yeah?”_

_“Yeah,” Stiles said as calmly as he could, his heart beating furiously. “Piece of cake.”_

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles hitched the pack onto his shoulder and nodded determinedly. “Ready,” he confirmed, following his pop out to the backyard. His uncles and his dad were waiting for them, all with worried but encouraging smiles. 

His dad hugged him tightly, whispering into his ear, “Be brave, my son. I love you.” Stiles hugged him back fiercely, pushing back tears.

“I will,” he promised. “I love you, Dad.”

His Uncle Sammy hugged him just as tightly, offering his own encouragement and telling him to take care of Gabe for him. Stiles nodded and laughed to keep from crying. This could be the last time he saw them, his family. 

He’d already said goodbye to the pack earlier, wanting them to stay with Derek at the house, and that had been a much more emotional affair than he’d thought. Even Jackson had looked like he might tear up. Or he was just disgusted with how much emotion they were throwing around. Either way, it had felt good to connect with them, to feel their strength flowing under his skin and filling him with the courage he desperately needed.

Both Gabriel and his pop placed hands on his shoulders, and he had only a second to offer his dad and Uncle Sammy a lop-sided smile before the world around them disappeared. His stomach belly-flopped, his ears rang with a high-pitched howling. He opened his mouth to yell out as his head gave a sharp pain, but just as soon as it had started, it stopped. 

As soon as he felt solid ground beneath his feet, he doubled over and threw up, two pairs of hands holding him steady and rubbing at his back. When the spinning in his head stopped, he slowly straightened up, his pop patting his shoulder and saying something to Uncle Gabe. He couldn’t quite hear yet, the noise around him dulled and muffled.

Blinking, he looked around, turning on the spot and swallowing hard before expelling a harsh breath. There were trees—a lot more than they had back home—and they swayed in a wind he couldn’t feel and made creaking noises that sounded like pained moans. 

He heard the sound of hurried footsteps, of twigs snapping, and he whipped his head around to try and follow them. But there were too many. His head still hurt with phantom pain, and it was too much to take in.

“Pop?” he whispered, fingers reaching out and gripping the familiar jacket as he pressed himself to his father like he had when he was six and afraid that the Boogie Man might be in his closet.

Red eyes blinked at him from the dark, and he gasped, hiding his face in his pop’s shoulder and shuddering. Warm arms wrapped around him and squeezed. 

“It’s okay, Stiles,” his pop said, loud and brave. “They’re just ghouls. They don’t have bodies here; they can’t do anything. It’s just for show, trust me.”

Stiles did trust him. The teen wasn’t easily scared—not with all the shit he’d put up with over the last couple of years—but this place was dark and cold and frightening. Uncle Gabe had warned him that his emotions might be heightened, so the fear he felt, though small in reality, was amplified. He had to be brave. He had to find Derek. He was here to find his mate and take him home. 

He was here. And he wasn’t leaving until he got what he came for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the description of decomposition. it just seemed like something stiles would pull up at an inconvenient moment like that...i had to do a little research, so if anything isn't right, feel free to let me know! also, if you plan on looking into it yourself, be careful...i got an eyeful of some rather nasty pictures i probably won't be forgetting anytime soon...i suggest looking for text-based descriptions, rather than image-based ones. :P
> 
> later, gators! catch you in the next chapter!


	4. Purgatory. A Meeting. A Big Problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, I am so sorry it's been so long since my last update. I honestly did not intend for so much time to slip by. Work has been messing with my schedule, but I think things are pretty well hashed-out now. I should have plenty of writing time ahead of me. :) Thank you so very much for being patient and sticking with me! Hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Gabriel frowned out at the blinking red eyes, his limited power flaring forward to keep them at bay. Dean was right about them being ghouls, but he was lying to Stiles about them being harmless. _Nothing_ in Purgatory was harmless. 

The only thing keeping them at bay now was the fact that they probably recognized who Dean was. He’d made quite an impression during his year abroad, and even after a good twenty years, they still knew him, still knew of the damage he could inflict.

But they would only keep their distance for so long.

“We should move,” the angel murmured, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through his chest.

“Which way?” Dean asked just as quietly, arms still around Stiles and fingers absently stroking through the young man’s hair.

Gabe knew how disorienting it could be, dropping into Purgatory so suddenly. He swallowed and concentrated, trying to ignore the glowing eyes that were still on them. “This way,” he said confidently, feeling a tug in the pit of his stomach. “I think we’re about a day-and-a-half from the entrance.”

“A day-and-a-half?” Dean grumbled, turning and scowling in the direction Gabriel had indicated. “That’s as close as you could get us?”

“Without scattering us into hundreds of chunky, bite-sized pieces? Yeah. This is as close as I could get us, Dean-O.”

Dean grit his teeth and gave the surrounding pairs of eyes a warning glare. “Fine,” he grumbled, hands moving to Stiles’ shoulders and pushing him back slightly. “Hey, buddy. How you doin’?”

The teen closed his eyes and took a couple of calming breaths before nodding. “I’m good. I…I think I’m good.”

“Okay,” Dean said, patting his shoulders a few times then letting him go. He looked guilty, like Stiles was already a goner and it was all his fault. 

Gabriel didn’t blame the man—hell, Stiles was probably about as close to a kid as he would ever have. Bringing Stiles to this place had been a mistake. Necessary, but a mistake.

“Let’s head out,” Dean continued with a nod to the angel. “You lead the way, I’ll watch the back. Stiles, you stay between us at all times, you hear me? If anything starts, you drop to the ground and—”

“—get the hell out of there,” Stiles finished for him, shoulders lifting and falling once more before he smirked a patented Winchester smirk. “I got it, Pop.”

The hunter smiled proudly, placing a hand on his son’s cheek. “That’s my boy.”

0 o 0 o 0

It was almost frightening how well Dean remembered this place. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or bothered, but he knew he couldn’t spend much time thinking about it. Stiles was his responsibility, his number one priority, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t getting his son out of here as soon as possible.

The eyes followed them for hours, blinking at them curiously from the dark confines of the trees. Dean could smell damp earth and rot, swallowed as the odor settled on his tongue and grimaced as it coated the back of his throat. It was the darkest part of the night, the most dangerous. But soon the sun would be out, the eyes would be gone.

And the monsters that had been hiding in the dark would come to light.

0 o 0 o 0

Sam woke abruptly, one hand instinctively going for the gun he kept under his pillow and the other to his left, where Gabe slept.

Where Gabe _usually_ slept.

The haze of sleep began to fizzle from behind his eyes, and memories of the day before surfaced. His chest ached.

0 o 0 o 0

_“I don’t want you to go,” Sam said, arms crossed as he watched Gabriel pack from across the room._

_The angel snorted, stuffing one of Sam’s shirts into his bag. “Kinda late for that, Sammy.”_

_The hunter’s shoulders stiffened. Even after years together, he still felt weird when anyone but Dean called him by the childhood nickname. It was special—sacred, almost. A reminder of what they’d gone through to get to where they were._

_“I know,” he said quietly, ducking his head and leaning into the doorframe of their bedroom._

_It was a nice place, a small cottage that Gabe had kept for decades, long before he’d met Sam. The solitude was comforting, and it was removed from the world, from time—hours could pass here while only minutes ticked away in the real world._

_“I still want you to stay.”_

_“Hey,” the angel said, and Sam looked up to find Gabriel standing right in front of him, a pensive frown pulling at the corners of his lips and causing ugly lines to stand stark on his skin, “I’m comin’ back, Samsquatch. No need for the water works.”_

_“I’m not—” Sam reached up to swipe at his left eye, which had been itching for some reason, only to find a wetness on his cheek. He pulled his hand back and stared at the tears on his fingers, mesmerized that they had fallen without him knowing. “Oh.”_

_Gabriel grabbed the hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the tears from his fingers and starting a trail at his wrist and up the soft skin of his arm to the crook of his elbow._

_Sam swallowed. “Can you…stay the night, at least?”_

_With a wide grin, the angel clutched at the taller man’s left bicep with one hand, using the other to cup the back of Sam’s neck and bring him down so their noses brushed and their breath mingled. “You gonna make it worth my while, baby?”_

_One corner of Sam’s mouth twitched, and he wrapped his arms around Gabriel, pulling him flush against his body. “Only if I can keep you for a little longer.”_

_Gabriel arched his back a bit, grinding his hips into Sam’s and chuckling as the hunter groaned. “I think that can be arranged.”_

0 o 0 o 0

Sam rubbed at his face roughly and squinted at the glaring red digits of the alarm clock beside the bed. Not his bed, he had to remind himself. Not the warm, comfortable bed he’d grown so used to. This was a bed in a guest bedroom at Dean and Cas’s place. Impersonal, and lacking a certain…someone.

It was two in the morning. And while Sam was accustomed to waking up at the crack of dawn, this was seriously pushing it. 

As he resigned himself to flipping over onto the cool side of the bed and drifting off again, he very suddenly realized he hadn’t woken on his own. Something had jolted him from a restless sleep, and that something was currently banging on the front door of the Winchester home. 

He was up in an instant, instinct pushing the sleep-daze from his mind as he grabbed a pair of jeans from the bottom of the bed and scrambled into them. He barely had them buttoned and zipped before he was down the hall and at the top of the stairs, gun cocked and ready in steady hands.

Castiel was already at the door, sporting a pair of plaid pajama pants and one of Dean’s old band t-shirts. His hair was mussed, as if he’d been tossing and turning, and Sam self-consciously ran a hand through his own mat of hair, doing little to tame its wildness. 

The angel offered him a cursory glance, lips tightening as he noted the gun in his hands, and shook his head before reaching forward and opening the door. 

Scott McCall burst into the entryway.

0 o 0 o 0

Scott didn’t like to think about the fact that Stiles’ family was basically the stuff of legend. Hunters and angels that had been to heaven (and hell) and back again like it was a walk in the park. Stiles had even mentioned once that he’d overheard his parents mention the fact that Dean Winchester was a trained torturer. They probably ate monsters like him for breakfast.

So as his gaze swiveled wildly, his wolf still boiling in his veins and bubbling up into his throat when he tried to speak, he shook himself and blinked the glow from his eyes, remembering why he liked this frightening family so much.

“Scott?” Mr. Winchester asked, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder without hesitation or fear. 

Stiles’ family was so freaking cool.

“It’s not the full moon yet. What’s wrong?”

“Had to…change,” the teen panted, swallowing and leaning into the angel’s touch for support. “Had to…get here…fast.”

“What happened?” someone from the stairs asked, and Scott turned and bared his teeth before he could stop himself. Stiles’ uncle stopped on the last step, his grip tightening on the gun in his hand, though he didn’t raise it.

“Sorry,” Scott breathed, turning to face Castiel again. “The Council…The Council is here, in Beacon Hills. They just showed up at the Hale house. We didn’t know what to tell them.”

“Council?” Mr. Winchester’s eyebrows drew together. “The Elder Council?”

“Werewolves?” Uncle Winchester asked cautiously.

“Alphas,” Scott said with a nod. “Six of them. They want to discuss the Hale land. They want…They want Derek’s body buried. They were angry.” His bottom lip trembled, and he wiped roughly at his face to hide it. “They said we disrespected him, a-and they made us leave the house. Mr. Winchester…we don’t…we don’t know what to do.” His voice cracked, and he hated himself for it. 

The angel nodded and patted his shoulder comfortingly, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s all right, Scott. I’ll take care of it.” The knots in Scott’s stomach began to unravel, settle. “Where are the others?”

“I told them to go to my house. They’re waiting there for…” Scott shrugged and huffed sharply. “…anything, I guess.”

“Good,” Mr. Winchester said. “Go there. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”

“Okay.” Scott nodded frantically, looking between the two men before swallowing and letting his hunched shoulders slump. “Okay.” With a sharp squeak from his muddy sneakers, he turned abruptly and walked calmly out the door. He didn’t shift. He didn’t run. 

And when he finally found himself on his front porch, he could barely muster the strength to open the door.

0 o 0 o 0

As Scott left, Castiel turned to the stairs, to Sam.

“We have to go,” he said, holding out his hand while clothes replaced his pajamas, trenchcoat fluttering as it settled.

Sam started to reach out but hesitated, looking down at himself and his naked torso before pursing his lips. “I don’t like it,” he said quietly, a few layers worth of shirts snapping over his skin out of thin air.

“I know,” Castiel replied insistently. “You probably shouldn’t bring your gun.”

Sam frowned, setting his gun on a nearby table and taking Castiel’s hand. “I don’t like that, either.”

“I know that, too.”

The entryway of the Winchester home disappeared from around them, and the chill air of night pricked at their skin as they faced the Hale house.

0 o 0 o 0

Dean swatted at a tree branch with a little more force than necessary, gritting his teeth and repressing a growl as it swatted him in return on the back of his neck.

“So what’s this door going to look like, anyway?” he asked, gaze sweeping the area pensively. Light was beginning to make an appearance, slowly and surely brightening a world he had hoped he would never see again. He never had figured out where the light emanated from, and this place never got brighter than a cloudy morning.

It was still too bright for Dean’s liking.

“First of all, it’s not a door,” Gabriel said expertly, and Dean quelled the urge to find a particularly sharp rock and lob it at his head, “it’s an entrance.” There was a hefty silence before the angel continued, his tone less smug this time. “Second…I don’t know.”

“Of course,” Dean muttered. “Figures we get all the way to friggin’ Purgatory, and we don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

“Hey,” Gabe said indignantly, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch, lifting it for Stiles, then letting it smack into Dean’s face, “you wanna know so bad? Ask your son. He’s the one who’s going to recognize it when we see it, all right?”

“Me?” Stiles asked uncertainly, hitching the pack on his shoulder a bit higher. 

“Yeah, kiddo,” the angel said, tone lighter. “Trip’s all about you. No pressure, though.”

“Sure,” both Dean and Stiles said at the same time.

They walked a while longer in silence, the forest around them brightening only minimally before they were able to see more than a few feet in front of them.

It was quiet and bare, and Dean didn’t like it—didn’t like the fog rolling around them like it had a mind of its own, didn’t like the crack of tree branches that reminded him of an old house settling into its foundation. 

By the looks Gabriel gave him every once in a while, he wasn’t overly fond of it either. The angel still looked drained; not nearly up to a fight should it come to that. Dean knew he was probably on his own and could only hope that when the time came that Gabe had the sense to get Stiles out of there before things escalated. 

“How much further?” Dean asked, and Gabriel gave him a pointed look. 

“Really? We’re starting with the ‘are-we-there-yets’ already?”

Dean frowned and turned his head to glance behind them. “Just asking.”

Gabriel huffed. “A day at most. We’re making good time.”

“How do you know how much further it is if you don’t know what we’re looking for?” Stiles asked carefully, and Dean couldn’t help the smile that broke out on his face. 

Smart boy. _His_ smart boy. How did he get so damn smart? Probably got it from Cas. Or Sammy. Definitely not from Dean. Or Gabe, for that matter.

“Angel mojo, kiddo,” Gabriel said confidently. “It’s like a pull. I can take us in the general direction, but the destination? That’s your job.”

“What if I don’t know what it is?”

“You will,” Dean said matter-of-factly, almost before Stiles managed to get the question out.

“But what if I don’t?”

Dean grabbed the back of Stiles’ hooded sweatshirt— _why did he wear that thing so often?_ —and tugged hard enough to make the teen flail to catch his balance before stopping. Gabe halted a few paces ahead of them, offering Dean a cursory glance as the hunter rounded on his son but saying nothing. 

“Hey,” Dean said, making sure he had the teen’s attention before continuing. “You remember what I said about this place?” Stiles gave him a blank stare. “It feeds off your fears, Stiles. It takes your insecurities and it twists them until you’re too freaked out to keep going.”

“And what if this isn’t Purgatory talking?” Stiles argued. Dean could see the doubt building in his son’s eyes, and he tried not to despair. “What if it’s just _me_ , and I _can’t do this_? What if we’re stuck here, and it’s all my fault?”

“That’s enough,” Dean said sharply, his tone not loud but authoritative nonetheless. Placing his hands on either side of the teen’s face, he shook the young man gently. “That’s enough. Come on, you know what’s happening here. You’re a smart kid—way smarter than your Uncle Sammy. You know what’s real. _This_ —” He shook the young man again for emphasis. “—is real.”

Stiles clutched at Dean’s hands, bitten fingernails digging into the weathered skin. “Okay, yeah,” the teen said, taking a deep breath and letting it loose carefully. 

“Yeah?” Dean asked.

Stiles offered a shaky smile. “Yeah.”

The hunter patted his son’s cheek and gave a relieved breath of his own. They couldn’t afford a panic here—not now, of all times—and despite the immense amount of faith in his son, he knew him well enough to know that one would pop up sooner or later.

All he could do was try to prolong it for as long as possible.

0 o 0 o 0

“How many?” Sam asked quietly, gaze sweeping the house and the surrounding area. He really didn’t like this place. 

“Six, as Scott said,” Castiel said, making no move to step forward.

“Threats?”

The angel sighed. Not the best sign. 

“Not intentional.”

Sam pursed his lips. “What do you mean?”

“He means,” a voice from the porch called, a tall, slender woman stepping forward into the limited light, “there will be no trouble as long as we are not provoked.”

Sam instinctively reached for the spot at the small of his back where he usually kept his weapons, finding the space sorely lacking in any type of weaponry. 

“We were aware this territory was populated by hunters,” the woman on the porch said, eyes flashing red as her lips parted in a smile, revealing a set of sharp canines, “but we have not encountered a creature of heaven in a very long time.”

She had an accent, full and thick and almost indiscernible. Sam could pick out bits here and there—French-African, most prominently, with splashes of South American (Venezuelan, maybe?) and something harder…German or Austrian. Her skin was dark, barely covered in the chill air by a long, flowing dress. Gold bracelets jingled on her wrists and ankles, gleaming against the moonlight. 

“Samuel Winchester,” she said, her voice deep and old despite her young figure. “You are a surprise as well. Your reputation is quite…alluring.”

“What is your business here in Beacon Hills?” Castiel asked, pulling the attention back to himself. Sam was grateful—the woman’s gaze was becoming unsettling; and there wasn’t much that could unsettle Sam Winchester.

Those bright eyes turned onto the angel, and a tugging sensation in the pit of Sam’s stomach had him wanting to jump between the two of them, to protect his family. But Cas didn’t even flinch. 

“The death of one of our own is not explanation enough?” the woman spat, her lips curling back over her gums as she snarled. “We have the right to mourn.”

“And you mourn _every_ death of your kind?” Castiel questioned, still calm despite the crackle in the air around them. 

Sam thought he imagined the noise, or that some animal in the woods was shifting restlessly from the tension emanating off the woman in waves. But no—there were actual crackles in the air, sparks of electricity. The dirt beneath his shoes shifted, and small pieces of forest debris began to lift from the ground, hovering at knee-height. 

Sam shifted and looked around anxiously seeing the same around the perimeter of the house. Several trees shook, and even the house itself began to creak. “I think what Castiel means,” the hunter began, having to clear his throat and take a breath as the tension split with an audible _crack-sizzle_ and _redred_ eyes were once again piercing him in place, “is that…surely not every death warrants a convening of your council.” The woman huffed through her nose, her gaze sizing Sam up as if she were trying to determine whether she should still be offended. “Obviously, Derek’s death was unnatural.”

“Yes,” the woman said, eyes narrowing. “You seem…intimate on the subject of the Hales. More than most hunters would care to be.”

Sam pressed his lips together tightly, turning to glance at Castiel. It didn’t seem his place to divulge the fact that the son of the most well-known hunters of their time was a little more than intimate with one of the few remaining members of a prominent werewolf family—well, formerly one of the few remaining; hopefully soon to be amongst the few remaining again.

“We are aware of the Hales,” Castiel said simply. “They posed no threat when we settled here, and we have had… _little_ interaction with Derek and his uncle.”

“His uncle?” the woman questioned, one well-shaped eyebrow raising. “We were informed of Peter Hale’s death several months ago.”

“Peter’s death was…exaggerated,” Sam explained, wincing slightly at the memory of his first, and only, encounter with Peter Hale.

0 o 0 o 0

_“Well, well, look who we have here.”_

_The voice raised the hair on the back of Sam’s neck before he even turned to see who it belonged to. Beside him, Stiles stiffened, the grocery bags in his hands slipping and falling into the trunk of the car._

_Instinct kicking in, Sam calmly set the groceries he had in the car and turned, one arm reaching out to pull Stiles behind him as he took a step towards the stranger._

_“Can I help you?” he asked, false politeness tingeing the warning in his tone._

_The stranger was good-looking, not young but certainly much older than he appeared. Sam had an eye for that sort of thing these days. He and Dean hadn’t aged in the traditional sense for some years—the perks of being involved with angels._

_The smile that the stranger gave was blinding, dripping with deceit and something not-quite-right. “My name is Peter Hale. I believe we have an acquaintance.”_

_Sam swallowed. “You’re Derek’s uncle,” he stated dryly. He’d heard stories—this man was manipulative, dangerous._

_Peter’s smile grew wider, and he removed his sunglasses to reveal a surprisingly charming pair of eyes. Sam guessed that he was a man used to getting what he wanted. “That’s right. You must be Sam Winchester. I’ve heard a number of things about you.” His gaze shifted up and down Sam’s body lecherously. “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”_

_The hunter’s left eyebrow crooked upward. “Don’t get that very often.”_

_“I wouldn’t expect so.” Peter’s gaze shifted just over Sam’s shoulder. “Hello, Stiles. It’s good to see you again.”_

_“Didn’t peg you for the grocery store type,” Stiles said flatly, and Sam felt the teen’s fingers curl into the hem of his shirt when Peter stepped even further forward, only a good five or six inches between them._

_“I’m not,” Peter confirmed after a beat. “I just wanted to say ‘farewell.’”_

_“You’re leaving?” the teen asked, stepping to the side but still staying relatively close to his uncle._

_Sam wondered at the surprise in his nephew’s voice. Obviously this man was no friend—at least not one Stiles had ever spoken very highly of…but Sam expected relief. Or something similar. The look he saw on the teen’s face was…worry._

_“Going abroad,” Peter clarified, the look on his own face somehow softening. “Seeking out new…prospects.”_

_“Does Derek know?”_

_Peter’s shoulders tightened. “We talked.”_

_“Oh,” Stiles said, voice small. “Okay.”_

_There was a long, awkward silence that Sam didn’t feel was his to break. He may as well have been in the car with the way the two were still staring at one another._

_“He’ll need his friends,” Peter finally said, replacing his sunglasses as if that ended the conversation. “I expect he’ll be taken care of?”_

_“Yes,” Stiles said simply, squaring his shoulders._

_“Good.” Peter turned back to Sam, grin splitting wide again on his face. “Sam. So pleased to finally meet you.”_

_Sam stared at the hand Peter was offering, taking it and forcing himself not to flinch when the man squeezed hard enough to crack his knuckles. “Sure,” he said, giving a tight smile in return._

_And that was Sam’s first, and only, meeting with Peter Hale._

0 o 0 o 0

He’d tried asking Stiles about the conversation later, had wanted to know what lay behind the words between the two. Stiles had only shrugged, looked out the passenger window, and drawn strange symbols in his breath on the glass.

“If Peter Hale is alive, then bring him forth,” the woman commanded. Sam had no doubt that she was a woman used to being obeyed. “He must answer for the death of his kin.”

“Peter?” Sam blurted, clearing his throat to compose himself. “You think Peter killed Derek?”

“Whether by his hand or not, he was not here to fight for his kin’s life. Nor is he here to mourn.”

“But he…he’s traveling. He probably doesn’t even _know_ —”

“He knows,” the woman growled. “All kin can sense the death of one another.” 

Her bright eyes shifted, gaze wandering over the wooded area slowly, carefully. Assessing. 

“Even if this were not so, he would realize it because he is the new Alpha of these lands, now.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles winced as his pop tugged wet chunks from his hair, shaking his hand and flinging them to the ground. 

“I. Am _so sorry_ ,” he apologized for possibly the umpteenth time. “Seriously, Pop, I had no idea….”

They’d run into vampires, of all things. Stiles had barely had enough time to feel his stomach drop out before he was shoved toward Uncle Gabe and was told to run, watching his pop snatch the weapon on his back and hold it at the ready.

The teen hadn’t even hesitated, drawing forth the image of some symbol he’d seen in one of Deaton’s books—one of the books he wasn’t technically allowed to look at, but he couldn’t help it if the man had left it out on his desk and Stiles’ mind was like a friggin’ sponge. 

In the instant before the vamps had reached his father, ugly teeth bared and angry screeches bubbling from their throats, they’d exploded. 

Friggin’. Exploded.

Like, fuck, Stiles hadn’t even known anyone could actually do that, let alone him. Deaton had some seriously freaky-deaky shit in his office, and the teen was obviously going to have to heed the man’s words the next time he told him which books he could and could not look at.

His pop sighed and stared at him carefully. “It’s…It’s okay,” he said tiredly. 

Stiles swallowed, his fingers bunching the fabric of his hoodie anxiously. “Are you sure? ‘Cause you have that look on your face that you get when you say something is okay, but internally you’re judging and deciding it is seriously not okay before you lash out and kill something—and seeing as I kind of robbed you of the chance to actually kill something, I’m a little worried that your sights are sort of set on me.”

“Stiles.”

“Please don’t kill me.”

Dean huffed and shook his head, wiping a hand down his face and inadvertently smearing blood across his left temple. “I’m not going to kill you, Stiles.”

The teen gave an actual sigh of relief, because as much as his pop was his pop…he was also a killer. Of supernatural things. Which Stiles was.

“Okay. Yeah, that…that’s good. I like the not killing part. Me, I mean. I like the not killing me part. Definitely. Because that—” He gestured to where the vampires had been, now just a wet patch of ground, and his breath hitched slightly. “—was some seriously messed up shit.” His voice broke, and he brought his hands up to tug at his short hair as his pop stood and reached for him. 

Stiles made a strangled noise and stepped back, nearly tripping over something he really hoped was a tree root or a fallen branch or something other than anything that was running through his thoughts at that very moment.

“I killed…I killed….” His throat closed around the words, and he covered his eyes and concentrated on keeping the panic welling in his stomach at bay. 

Concentrating was harder than he thought. There were noises—much more than he remembered earlier. Creaks and howls and screeches and probably a few others that were only a part of his imagination ( _he hoped, oh God, please_ ). 

And then whispering, hushed and frustrated. His pop and his uncle arguing. Nothing new. Kind of familiar, actually. Which was good. Really good.

Pushing the other sounds away, he centered on the voices that were becoming louder, angrier. 

“ _Do_ something.”

“Why don’t _you_ do something?”

“You know how to handle this. You have before.”

“Yeah, and you’re his _father_. I think you need a lesson in _parenting_.”

“Gabe—”

“Dean. Go talk to your son.”

“…What do I say?”

“ _Anything_. It doesn’t matter. He just needs something to focus on.”

Stiles couldn’t even dredge up mortification about the fact that they were talking about him like he was some dangerous animal they were trying to figure out how to approach. Also, you know, that his own father had absolutely no idea how to handle him. 

And thinking back it wasn’t really all that surprising. 

If it hadn’t been his dad snuffing out the panic tightening his chest, it was Uncle Gabe. And, on a few occasions, Uncle Sammy. More so Derek than anyone—even before they’d become an official hot item.

Thinking about Derek helped. A little. Because thinking about Derek also had him thinking about holding his limp, dead body in his arms. And thinking about that made it worse. 

“Stiles?”

He jumped and spun around, finding his pop standing right freaking _there_. “Fuck,” he muttered, taking a step back and feeling his heel catch on something. His arms shot out, hands instinctively grasping what was closest—his pop’s shirt. 

Arms came around him, holding him tight, steadying him…not unlike the arms he was used to feeling. 

God, again with the likening of Derek to his pop. He was really going to have to look into this whole _kids-grow-up-to-marry-people-like-their-parents_ thing. Because this was ridiculous and insane and…kind of nice.

“We’re really gonna have to work on that mouth of yours, kid,” his pop said gruffly, voice vibrating into Stiles’ temple as he started to back away. 

No, Stiles didn’t want that just yet. 

“Pop,” he said quietly, fingers clenching into dirty, blood-stained flannel, and the older man stopped moving. “Can you just…?”

The arms around him tightened further, a stubbled chin rubbing into his hair as chapped lips brushed briefly at his temple. “Yeah, buddy. Whatever you need.”

0 o 0 o 0

Scott had barely walked through his front door before he was surrounded. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica had him pinned to the door in an instant, concerned faces leaning in close as they spoke in jumbled phrases.

“Did you talk with—”

“Where is he? Did—”

“Did he say anything about—”

“Guys!” Allison yelled from behind them, and the trio immediately quieted. “Give him some room.”

Scott breathed a sigh of relief, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he swallowed on a dry throat and took a steadying breath. Before he could say anything, however, there was a knock on the door. Everyone in the room stiffened. The hairs on the back of Scott’s neck prickled, and he offered a quick glance to the small group before stepping away from the door and opening it to—

“Mr. Winchester?”

Sharp blue eyes centered on him, the angel’s presence seeming to electrify the air around them. “May I come in?” 

It took a moment for the teen to react, but then he was nodding jerkily and stepping aside. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

The electric feeling followed the man in, and the werewolves backed away from him like he was about to attack. Scott knew he wouldn’t…maybe…but Mr. Winchester didn’t really seem like himself.

“Everything…okay, Mr. Winchester?”

The man looked around pensively, as if only then realizing he was in a room full of teenagers. “Where….” He closed his mouth and shook his head, taking a short breath and starting over. “The Council is demanding Peter Hale’s return to Beacon Hills.”

“Peter?” Scott asked, the only one in the room to step toward the man. “He’s been gone for _months_. We don’t know where he is.”

“Well, we need to find him,” Mr. Winchester said seriously, his voice lower than Scott remembered it being in a while.

It used to be that way when they were younger, when he stared at Stiles and Scott like they were new, strange things. 

“The Hale territory depends on it,” the angel continued, focusing mainly on Scott but gaze venturing around awkwardly every once in a while. “Sam is in negotiations with the Council now, but without Peter to claim the land, Beacon Hills will no longer be safe.”

“What are you talking about?” Allison piped up, glancing at Scott uncertainly. 

“Without a claim, Beacon Hills becomes open territory. Any werewolf, or supernatural creature for that matter, can compete for the Hale land.”

“Compete? Like…games?” Scott asked stupidly. Hopefully.

“Compete like _killing_ ,” Boyd explained, crossing his arms and shifting uncomfortably.

“Yes,” Mr. Winchester confirmed. “The town will be overrun. We _need_ to find Peter. Is there any way to contact him?”

“You can’t?” Erica blurted, looking extremely self-conscious when everyone turned to look at her. “I mean, you’re an…an angel, right? Why can’t you just…hone in on him, or something?”

Mr. Winchester frowned, looking away from the group for a moment before speaking again in a short, clipped tone. “My powers are not what they used to be. I can find the people closest to me, people I have a connection with, but I can no longer ‘hone in,’ as you say, on people I have had little contact with.”

“So how are we supposed to find him?” Scott asked, exasperation creeping into his tone.

“I was hoping that with the help of his pack, we might determine a general location,” Mr. Winchester said, and the room went quiet.

“His pack?” Isaac asked, eyebrows furrowing. “You mean _us_?”

“We’re not Peter’s pack,” Boyd said firmly. 

“Derek is dead,” the angel said bluntly, looking at each of the werewolves in turn as hackles began to rise. “Peter now takes rank as alpha of this pack. Is this not correct?”

“No. No, that is _not_ correct,” Erica said, arms folding over her chest. “Derek is our alpha.”

“Derek is—” Mr. Winchester started to repeat, but both Isaac and Boyd stepped forward to join Erica.

“You said you could bring him back.”

“You promised Stiles.”

“Where _is_ Derek?”

Mr. Winchester stood very still, tall and straight and stoic, and Scott was afraid, for just a second, that he might use what little power he had left to turn them into puppy chow. Or dirt. Or whatever angels turned people into.

“Derek is coming back…isn’t he, Mr. Winchester?” Scott asked quietly.

The angel sighed, placing his hands on his hips and turning away from them for a moment. It was probably one of the most human things Scott had ever seen him do. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if Derek is coming back. I don’t know if my _brother_ is coming back. I don’t know if my _son_ is coming back. I don’t know if my _husband_ is coming back. I don’t _know_.” He wiped a hand down his face, a very _other_ Mr. Winchester gesture, and scratched the back of his head. “What I _do_ know is that we need Peter to claim the Hale territory so that there is something to come back _to_.”

Silence. 

And then Allison stepped forward. “I…might be able to help with that.”

0 o 0 o 0

“It’s a…tree.” Stiles let his gaze wander upward, skeptically taking in the graying bark, the bare branches, the bird staring at him from a shoddy-looking nest.

Purgatory had birds?

Beside him, Uncle Gabe shrugged. “It’s what you need it to be.”

With a pensive frown, the teen took a step closer, leaning to the left and then to the right to get better angles of it. Yeah, still creepy no matter which way he looked at it. “So Purgatory thinks I need a tree?” 

“Maybe you do, kiddo.” The angel clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s all about perspective.”

“My Chem teacher says my perspective is abnormally skewed.” Stiles scrunched his nose distastefully. 

His uncle sighed, looking up into the tree and pressing his lips into thin lines. “What do you feel, Stiles?”

Stiles took a breath and waited. 

Yeah. Nothing. 

“Cold,” he said tiredly, his shoulders slumping. 

“C’mon, work with me,” the angel said, hands shifting to his hips. “We gotta get back to your dad before he shits a brick.” 

Stiles glanced back into the wooded area behind them, where his pop wandered the perimeter, keeping an eye out for threats and glancing back at the two of them every so often. He gave Stiles a nod and a guarded smile before turning to look into the dark again.

“You think he would?” the teen asked quietly.

“I could make him.”

“Please don’t.”

“Stiles,” Uncle Gabe said, and the teen swallowed. “Touch the tree.”

Stiles took a breath and released it in a sharp, staccato-ed gust, raising a hand and flexing his fingers. “And then I’ll get to see Derek?” 

“Only one way to find out,” his uncle said matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah,” the teen murmured. “Guess so.”

The angel studied him for a long moment, and Stiles squirmed under the scrutiny. “You can do this, kiddo.” Uncle Gabe smiled. Stiles wished he couldn’t tell that the gesture was forced. 

Stepping forward, the teen held his breath, twitching fingers reaching out and tentatively resting against the rough texture of the tree. It felt…warm. And right. Tendrils tingled up his arm, wrapped around his chest, soothed his pounding heart. Something compelled him to look up, tilted his chin until he was searching the branches above.

And then Stiles could see it—there in the twisted limbs of the tree. 

He needed it, whatever it was. It was important, and it was going to get him to Derek. The same something pulled at him until he couldn’t resist any longer, until he was stretching his arm and reaching up, grabbing a thick branch and tugging a bit to test his weight before he hefted himself up, sneakers scratching against the bark.

“Stiles?” his uncle asked uncertainly, but the teen grabbed the next branch in sight and hauled himself up further.

“I’ll be right back,” he managed, pausing to smile encouragingly back at the other man before continuing to pull himself upward. 

“Be careful,” Uncle Gabe called. 

“Uh-huh,” Stiles grunted, just as the branch above him snapped. His heart leapt and his stomach plummeted; he barely had a chance to cry out before his back hit the ground and the wind was knocked from him. 

“Ow,” he murmured dazedly, expecting a chuckle or a smart remark from his uncle. “Stupid tree.”

A silhouette blocked the light from above him, and he squinted. 

“Hey, you all right?”

That…was not his uncle.

Ignoring the pounding in his head, he scrambled to his feet, leaning his back into the tree as a wave of dizziness overtook him. “Holy shit,” he hissed, grabbing the rough bark to keep from toppling back to the ground. 

The young man standing in front of him was clean-shaven, hair styled neatly and eyes bright. His clothing was casual, not dark and broody—jeans and sneakers and some sort of band t-shirt beneath an open flannel shirt. 

It absolutely could not be who Stiles thought it was.

And yet….

“ _Derek_?”


	5. A Plea. A Realization. A Bite.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fucking chick-flick moments....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh!! I am so very sorry, you guys. Between moving and working and getting a cat (who bites like we’re his all-you-can-eat-tuna-buffet), I just had to push this story back a bit. But things have settled some, and I think I will probably have more time to work on this fic. There’s, truthfully, maybe only one or two more chapters left? *crosses fingers* Then on to PART THREE!!! Which has yet to be named…but I think we can all agree what it will start with. ;) Anyway, I made this a particularly long chapter, since you guys had to wait so long. Hopefully that makes up for the wait…and the ending…but I’m getting ahead of myself….Enjoy!!! :D

Sam let loose a frustrated sigh, pacing the partially-renovated Hale kitchen with a growing sense of foreboding. Six pairs of eyes followed him as his restlessness bled into the room and saturated the figures— _werewolves, Sam reminded himself_ —watching him intently.

“Again.” The woman from the porch—who Sam had learned was named Babirye—was being far more patient than the hunter figured she normally would be—more than the others, anyhow.

He’d been there two-and-a-half hours. By himself. Much of that time had been spent trying to figure out werewolf courtesy when it came to negotiations, including remembering each of the Council member’s names and their briefly-given origins.

From what Sam had found out so far, Babirye and her twin brother, Kato, were the eldest of the group, and with their younger brother, Alaba, also part of the Council, they held a fair amount of sway when it came to making decisions. The other three members, a Russian woman with a drawn face and a half-interested look named Natalia, a Peruvian man named Luis, and a small, elderly woman named Gertrude (…yeah, Sam was completely thrown by that one), continuously looked to the siblings to gauge their reaction.

Sam very soon realized that this was not about convincing the entire Council—just the few who mattered.

“I don’t see how going over this again will—”

“Humor us,” Babirye said quietly, tone dangerous as her eyes flashed.

The hunter’s lips thinned as he pressed them together, nodding and taking a breath. “Derek died in the woods. We don’t know what attacked him.”

“Or who,” Kato growled, pacing behind his seated sister and eyeing Sam like he wanted to rip the skin from his bones…or fuck him. Maybe both. Sam wasn’t sure. He hoped it was neither.

“Castiel moved his body here,” Sam continued, ignoring the implications of the werewolf’s words, “and put him in…a stasis of some kind.”

“Why wasn’t he buried?” the elderly woman, Gertrude, demanded. Her voice was much stronger than her appearance, full and sharp.

Sam swallowed. “We’re sorry. We know this is against your laws—”

“It is disrespectful,” Kato snarled, fangs extending as his harsh breathing began to turn into throaty growls.

“—but we are trying to bring him back.”

“Impossible,” the Russian, Natalia, said softly, her tone holding absolutely no emotion. The hunter couldn’t tell if she was merely making a statement or actually arguing.

“It’s not,” Sam countered, relieved when there was no outburst. “We’ve done it before.”

“How?” Babirye asked. “Explain.” Her eyes were bright, the corners of her mouth lifted just slightly in an almost-smile. Was she enjoying this? Watching her Council tear him apart?

Well, not literally.

Not yet, anyway.

“Purgatory,” Sam said simply, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. “I assume you know what that is.”

“Yes,” Babirye stated, the word clipped. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably, her careless air faltering for the first time. “All creatures know of _The After_.”

“Right. Well, we have a way in.”

“Lies!” Kato grabbed the back of his sister’s chair, the wood cracking under his fingers.

“No,” Sam argued, sitting back in his seat when the werewolf let loose an angry, threatening noise. “Look, if you know our reputation, then you know who we have on our side.”

“A fallen angel,” the Peruvian, Luis, snorted, picking something from his fingernails and flicking it across the table at Gertrude, who scowled back at his toothy grin. “What use is that?”

“ _Castiel_ is my brother-in-law,” Sam explained, “and, yeah, he’s a fallen angel—who still has a decent amount of power, I might add. He’s not completely cut off.” The young man ( _young? not so much anymore, Sammy…compared to these guys, though, you’re practically still in diapers_ ) took a breath and glanced around the table carefully. “ _Gabriel_ , however, is not fallen.” He was pleased to find recognition bloom in the few pairs of eyes on him. “And…he’s also my boyfriend. Just so you know.”

“The archangel Gabriel— _Loki_ ,” Babirye purred, leaning forward, propping her elbow on the table, and resting her chin in the cup of her palm while her gaze wandered up and down Sam’s gangly frame with renewed interest. “Well, that _is_ a surprise. How is the _god of mischief_?”

Sam clenched his teeth. _God damnit, Gabe._ “Taken.”

Babirye chuckled and leaned back in her broken chair, fingers steepled at the points of her sharp nails. “An angel would risk its life to bring a werewolf back from Purgatory?”

“He’s there now,” Sam explained, concern drawing his eyebrows together despite his best effort to hide it, “with my brother.”

“And you believe he will return with Derek Hale before the others arrive?” Kato asked, giving a sharp bark of laughter when the hunter glanced between the siblings uncertainly.

“Others?” Sam asked, dread building in the pit of his stomach.

“Werewolves, Sam Winchester,” Babirye stated matter-of-factly. “They come to lay claim to the Hale territory.” Her eyes flashed brightly as her smile widened. “And they will kill anyone who attempts to stand in their way.”

0 o 0 o 0

“Dad?” Allison asked timidly from across the familiar kitchen she suddenly appeared in.

Chris Argent dropped the half-empty beer bottle in his hand just as he was about to take another drink, cursing and spinning around. “Jesus, Allison, I didn’t hear you—” His gaze rested on the ruffled man beside her, blue eyes staring back at him with volumes of exhaustion and worry. “Mr. Winchester?”

“Mr. Argent,” Castiel greeted roughly. “I apologize for the intrusion, but—”

“We need to find Peter Hale,” Allison interrupted, giving her father a hard look.

An awkward silence followed the words before Chris cleared his throat, grabbing a towel from the sink and bending down to the mess on the tiled floor. “And you think I can find him for you?”

“I know you can,” the young woman stated sharply. “You already know where he is.”

The retired hunter hissed as his hand involuntarily clenched on a piece of glass, and he stood, inspecting the wound with a wince. “What—”

“I read Mom’s journals,” Allison blurted, and Chris stilled, color draining from his face. “She knew about you and Peter. She knew you were… _together_.”

“Allison,” Chris started, head shaking as a plea formed on his tongue, “it’s not—”

“I don’t care,” the teen said, chin raising as she valiantly pushed the tears back behind her eyes. “Just tell us where to find him.”

Her father leaned back against the counter, defeated gaze lingering on her a moment longer before he looked back to the cut on his hand. Very gently, a hand, suddenly, crept over the injury, and Chris looked up to find Castiel standing in front of him, eyes not hard and accusing like his daughter’s but still very stern.

“Mr. Argent,” the angel said quietly, and the hunter felt warmth and relief seep into the cut on his hand, “please. The lives of my son and my husband depend on Peter Hale.”

Castiel lowered his hand, and Chris looked down to find the cut completely healed— _gone_. Like it had never happened. Not even a scar. A wave of bitterness swept through him briefly. This man— _angel_ —could heal, could bring people back from the dead. Where had he been when his wife was in agony? When he’d been forced to kill her? Why couldn’t he bring her back? Was she in purgatory with all the other monsters? Mere seconds as a werewolf, and she was condemned to a place like that?

“If it’s any consolation,” Castiel said carefully, “your wife’s brief transformation was not enough to send her to Purgatory. She is in heaven.” Chris looked up, searching the angel’s eyes for any sign of deception. No, he wasn’t lying. “My intention was to tell you sooner, but I did not know what time would be appropriate to discuss such a matter.”

A sharp bark of laughter forced its way up the former hunter’s throat, and he glanced over Castiel’s shoulder to his daughter. She looked relieved and happy and in mourning all over again. But they finally had an answer they’d wanted for a long while.

“All right.” Chris nodded. “I’ll tell you where he is.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles could remember blood on his hands and tears in his eyes and screams on his tongue. He could remember seeing and feeling the life leave Derek as he’d cradled him in his arms. So to see him here in this place, happy and living (so to speak) was just…cruel on so many levels.

“Derek?”

As it turned out, the universe’s cruelty abounded. Because as Stiles stared at the man he’d fallen so very much in love with, he noticed something…different. Well, several things, besides the obvious.

And one of the most prominent was his face—which had absolutely no semblance of recognition on it.

“Do I…know you?” Derek asked carefully, head tilting like the curious puppy Stiles knew him to be.

“Um…” Stiles slipped against the bark of the tree and stumbled a bit before regaining his balance. Derek’s smile only widened, and the man laughed— _freaking laughed_. “I’m—”

“Derek!” someone called from nearby, and both boys turned in the direction of the voice. Stiles immediately recognized the young woman that approached them— _Laura freaking Hale_ —and nearly stumbled again as she stopped beside Derek, placed a hand on his shoulder, and gave Stiles a confused up-and-down glance. “Who’s your friend?”

“I dunno,” Derek said with a shrug, his smile still firmly in place. “He sort of just…fell from the sky.”

“The tree…actually,” Stiles said, flailing an arm in the direction of said object and rubbing the back of his head. It still really hurt. “I’m Stiles. Winchester.” He watched Derek as he said his name, hoping it would spark something, _anything_ , that maybe just saying his name aloud would make him remember.

_Please, Derek…._

Nope. Nothing.

“What brings you to these parts, Stiles?” Laura asked, eyeing him again with a smirk.

Like that was going to freak him out.

…Okay, maybe it was.

A little.

_Keep it together, Winchester. We got things to do._

“Just…looking for someone,” the teen said stupidly, shrugging when Derek’s smile waned somewhat.

“Must be someone important to come all this way,” Derek replied quietly. “We don’t get many visitors out here.”

Stiles swallowed and licked his lips, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, they’re, uh, pretty important.”

A beat passed before Laura cleared her throat and the two startled back into reality—if this could be called reality.

“Right. Well, Mom wants us back for dinner,” the young woman said, eyebrows waggling at her brother as she gestured towards Stiles. “Maybe you should invite your friend. You know Mom can’t turn away a stray.”

Derek scowled and jutted his jaw out slightly, giving his sister what Stiles assumed was supposed to be a meaningful _you’re-family-and-I-love-you-but-don’t-think-for-a-second-I-won’t-rip-your-throat-out_ look, before turning back to the teen and sighing. “You hungry?”

Stiles wanted to refuse.

Actually, he wanted to turn and climb his way back to where ever the hell it was he came from. Maybe this doorway, or whatever, was still open. Maybe this was the wrong place. Maybe he was in a different dimension and all he had to do was climb until he reached the branch that would take him to a Derek who _fucking remembered him_ and their supposed _happily werewolf after_.

But one look at this Derek, and Stiles knew he couldn’t leave. He had to stay, if only to be sure. What if this was his Derek? What if this was the man he’d chosen to spend the rest of his life with, and all he needed was a whack on the head or a decent make-out session to remind him of who he was supposed to be?

He could do this.

He could bring Derek back from whatever crazy head-mojo spell this place had on him.

“Sure,” Stiles agreed. “Starved.”

0 o 0 o 0

“We need more time,” Sam begged, resisting the urge to rub at his tired eyes. He’d been awake for the last thirty-two hours, and tensions in the Hale home were still peaked beyond his ability to handle by himself. No word from Castiel on Peter’s whereabouts or whether the Purgatory rescue mission was anywhere near being complete. And no word, at that point, was a bad thing.

“You have had plenty,” Kato said, his voice almost warm when he wasn’t growling. He’d become considerably less irritable over the last twenty-four hours, and Sam wondered if he was like this normally.

The young hunter had finally found some alone time with Babirye when the others had gone hunting—outside the town, at Sam’s formal request—and had learned quite a bit more about the Lycan Council that surprised him.

They weren’t the sole council in the world—it would mean a lot of traveling on their part, if they were. Instead, a few werewolves from different countries banded together to form councils on each continent. The North American region was part of Babirye’s jurisdiction, but sometimes she dealt with matters in Central America, and even as far as South America.

The bands rarely ever met—mainly because putting a bunch of alphas in the same place at once was…just an awful idea, to be honest—but each alpha still had their own pack. Councils only banded when matters of great importance rose.

And the Hale territory, it seemed, was a matter of great import.

Babirye, herself, had a small pack in the South African territory and actually had very little contact with her brothers outside the Council. They were born into Lycanthropy nearly two-hundred-and-fifty years ago, abandoned at very young ages and forced to find their way until they were captured and forced into slavery.

“ _Humans have not always been so unaware of our existence_ ,” she’d explained.

Kato had been sold to a traveling carnival, used as a side-show attraction, beaten and starved. One of the young dancers, a girl, had felt sorry for him, tried to help him escape, and had been killed for her trouble. Kato had burned the carnival to the ground and spent a good part of his young adult life on the run from hunters until he’d found a pack willing to take him in.

At thirteen, Babirye had been given to an abusive man with many wives. She was raped and became pregnant four times, each time producing only females. The man, who wanted to raise strong young men, had the babies killed before Babirye was even able to hold them for the first time. On the night after her fourth child’s death, Babirye became aware of her gift. Her rage wrapped around the throats of the man who had abused her, of the other wives who had told her to accept her place as a victim, of the sons who were being raised to continue the awfulness, and squeezed until their cries died and they choked on their tongues.

Babirye had yet to hear of Alaba’s sorrows, but the pain in his eyes spoke volumes. She knew next to nothing about the other three members of the Council. They were, of course, younger than the siblings, but as far as Babirye was concerned, they were merely representations of their clans.

“It is time to make burial plans and speak of this territorial dispute.” Kato interrupted Sam’s thoughts, bringing the dire situation back into light.

“A few more hours,” Sam pleaded, looking to Babirye for support, “that’s all I’m asking.”

“You have no right to ask for such things!” Kato said, the growl returning to his voice as he turned to face his sister. “Why we have granted this human the time he has already been given is beyond me. Talia Hale’s son deserves a proper burial and mourning before his lands are overrun. Sister—”

“We will give them the time they were promised,” Babirye said sharply, and Sam breathed out in a steady stream of air.

“Thank you.”

The woman’s bright gaze fell on the hunter, and she smirked. “Do not thank me yet, Sam Winchester. When the alphas arrive, I will be of little help to you and your friends.”

“I may be able to help with that,” a voice said from the hall.

Sam swiveled around, relief flooding him as Castiel stepped into the room. He opened his mouth, intent on saying the angel’s name—because saying it would make it real, would set his mind at ease and prove he wasn’t alone in this anymore. Unfortunately, before he could get his brother-in-law’s name out, another figure stepped out from behind him, and Sam’s mouth went dry.

“Peter,” he said instead.

The lecherous smile was familiar. And unmissed. “Sam. What a pleasure to see you again.”

“Sure,” was all Sam could get out before Babirye stepped forward, shoulders pressed back as she raised her chin. The grin on Peter’s face fell, and his shoulders hunched slightly.

“Peter Hale,” the woman said, her voice deeper and full of command that seemed to impress even Castiel, “by order of The Council, you are to stand trial for the death of your nephew. You will—”

“ _Death_?” Peter blurted, looking at each person in the room in turn before settling a betrayed gaze on Castiel. “Derek’s _dead_? You didn’t say he was dead!”

A stiff silence crept into the room, ushered out only when Sam swallowed and asked, “You didn’t know?”

Exasperation replaced the off-guard look on Peter’s face—he certainly didn’t seem overly distraught over the fact that a member of his family was dead. Sam marked it down as yet another reason he didn’t like the man.

“And how the hell was I _supposed_ to know? I’ve been gone for months!” Peter exclaimed, turning in desperation towards Babirye and her brother. “I haven’t set foot in Beacon Hills. You have to have realized that already. My scent is probably faded by now, if not gone completely.”

Kato growled, but Babirye held up a hand. “He speaks the truth.”

With a huff, Kato squared his shoulders, popping his shoulder blades as he said, “Then as alpha of the Hale territory—”

“Uh…Slight problem with that,” Peter said, gesturing vaguely with one hand towards his eyes. They brightened.

And they were blue.

“I’m not the alpha.”

0 o 0 o 0

“Is it blue?”

“No.”

“Is it green?”

“No.”

“Is it…gray?”

“Yes.”

“Is it that rock?”

“No.”

“Is it _that_ rock?”

“No.”

“Is it the rock we passed twenty minutes ago?”

“ _No_.”

Gabriel sighed. “Everything looks gray here.”

“Kind of my point,” Dean ground out, ducking beneath a branch and letting it snap backwards into Gabe’s face.

The angel made a surprised noise, groaning as he landed on his back. Leaves scattered, and Dean turned to watch the other attempt to sit up. Amusement morphed into concern when Gabriel didn’t immediately get up.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Fine,” Gabe grumbled, lifting up onto one arm and flailing with the other before he fell back into the soggy leaves again. A frustrated sound settled in his throat, and he kicked at the leaves childishly, as if they were to blame for his incompetence.

“You’re not,” Dean argued, shaking his head as if just realizing the angel had been lying to him all along. “You look like shit.”

“Aren’t you a charmer.”

“Gabe, knock it off.” Dean squatted down beside the angel, looking him over with a pensive frown. “What’s wrong?”

The mischief in Gabe’s eyes was suddenly dimmer, his face sallow and pale. Had Dean really not noticed this?

“This place,” Gabriel said quietly, gesturing to the gray world around them, “it’s not letting me re-charge.”

Dean ground his teeth. “No angel juice?”

A smirk quirked one side of Gabe’s mouth. “Very _limited_ angel juice.”

“But you’ll be able to get us home.”

“…Sure.”

“Gabe….”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“ _Gabriel_.”

“I don’t know, Dean!” the angel shouted, and the world suddenly got quieter. “I had to use it to get us here, and to find the entrance to the Elysian Fields, and to keep tabs on Stiles, and to keep tabs on _you_ , and to fucking _find_ Stiles again, and now I have to use it to find the portal that’s going to take you all home. And I just—”

“ ‘You all’?” Dean repeated, eyebrows furrowing. “What do you mean ‘you all’? Gabe, you’re…you’re coming with us. You’re coming home.”

Gabriel closed his eyes. “I…I don’t know about that either.”

“Bullshit.”

“Dean—”

“Bull. Shit. Gabe. We’re all going home.”

“That’s not really up to you.”

“The hell it isn’t.” Dean grabbed the angel’s arms and squeezed. “You…You and I don’t get along.”

“Understatement of the—”

“Shut up. I’m doing a thing,” the hunter interrupted, taking a breath and starting again. “You and I don’t get along. But you’re with my little brother, and I see how you are together, how he acts around you. You make him happy, and that’s more than I’ve ever been able to do for him. I…I used to be enough.” Dean swallowed hard as a lump settled in the back of his throat. Fucking chick-flick moments. “I’m not anymore, so my job is to keep him happy. Which means keeping you both together.”

Gabriel stared for a long moment. It was the closest to family that Dean had ever called him. “I’m a big brother too, you know,” he said quietly, “and I could throw all that crap right back in your face. But I won’t…because that was seriously the girliest shit I’ve ever heard in my entire existence.”

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved at Gabriel, standing and taking a step away. “Whatever.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Thanks, though.”

The hunter’s gaze settled on Gabe, eyes narrowed as he assessed the sincerity of the gratitude. “Sure,” he said finally, reaching down and helping the angel to his feet. “Just…Whatever it is you have to do to get _all of us_ out of here…do it. All right?”

Gabriel pursed his lips and sighed. “Yeah. Okay.” He staggered some after releasing his grip on Dean but was able to hold his own as he looked around and breathed in deep, nodded, and let slip a crooked grin. “This way.”

Gabe lead. And Dean followed.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles closed his eyes, feet rolling along the ground as he slowly propelled the porch swing back and forth—the porch swing, he might add, that was hanging from the fully-restored porch of the fully-restored Hale house. Which was beautiful. The teen hadn’t know it had been so beautiful before the fire. Now, he couldn’t even picture the way the fire had ruined it, and he doubted he ever would again. If he ever got back, that is.

_They_. If _they_ ever got back.

His stomach gurgled, and beside him Derek chuckled. “Hungry again already?”

Stiles patted his belly and breathed heavily. “Uh-uh. No way. That, my friend, is the sound of a happy tummy full of amazing, home-cooked food. I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.”

“Not even dessert?” the other asked slyly, and Stiles’s eyebrows perked.

“Well, I guess there’s always room for—”

Derek leaned forward before he could finish, pressing his lips to the teen’s. It was gentle, tentative. And Stiles would have none of that.

He kissed him back, harsh and demanding and _i-missed-you-so-much_. He kissed him until Derek’s lips parted and their tongues tangled wetly and _don’t-leave-me-again-please-never-again_. He kissed him while his hands wandered over familiar biceps and shoulders and pecs and abs and _god-damn-this-fucking-ass_.

Stiles kissed him like he had a hundred times before…

…and his hope sank.

This was not Derek. Not the Derek he remembered, anyway.

And as he pulled away, watching the surprised look on the other’s face melt into a funny grin, he knew for certain that he would never get his Derek back.

Derek leaned in for another kiss, but Stiles released him, tumbling awkwardly from the swing, stepping away, and shaking his head. “Sorry,” he murmured, swallowing hard and attempting a smile. “I, uh…Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Derek said, a chuckle in his voice as he stood and reached out. “Stiles—”

“I should go,” the teen blurted, again stepping out of reach. “I mean…I should get back to my pop and my uncle…before it’s too late.”

He turned, intending to leave, to get out of this _hell_ and never think of Derek fucking Hale ever again. Maybe Uncle Gabe would do him a favor and make him forget.

“Stay,” Derek called just as the teen stepped off the porch.

The word hurt. _Physically_ hurt. Stiles nearly whimpered, having to bite the inside of his cheek and squeeze his eyes shut to keep the noise at bay. There was a tightness in his chest that he didn’t like, and he knew where it would lead if he didn’t get himself under control.

“Derek,” he said breathlessly, “you don’t even _know_ me. Your family’s here. Why would you want me to stay?”

“I can remember! I can!” Derek promised, and Stiles turned. How could he…. “I could tell by the way you looked at me when we met earlier, when I didn’t recognize you like you recognized me. From before.” The older man stepped off the porch, and Stiles couldn’t move.

“You know you’re…?”

“Dead?” Derek laughed. “Yeah, of course. We’re not stupid, we know the difference. But what does it matter? We can’t go back. And we’re happy. We’re together….Stiles…Stay.” He held out his hand, his smile warm and inviting and encouraging and everything Stiles wanted.

And why the hell _shouldn’t_ he stay here? It was paradise. No danger, no worry. He and Derek could start over, do things right. A perfect world where they could live together forever.

But….

“I can’t.”

The grin on Derek’s face fell, and his shoulders slumped. “Please—”

“No,” Stiles said firmly, taking a breath and closing his eyes. Everything he ever wanted…and he was about to walk away from it. Seriously, how _stupid_ could you get? “Derek, I think it’s time for me to go.”

0 o 0 o 0

“I don’t understand,” Sam said, looking back and forth between Peter and Babirye. “If he’s not the alpha, then—”

“You are certain there are no other Hale family survivors?” Babirye interrupted, sharp gaze boring into, supposedly, the last of the Hales.

Peter ground his teeth and growled. “I think I would have _noticed_ any survivors.”

“Then the only explanation is a mate,” Kato said, the twins sharing a hard look.

“A _mate_?” Peter said incredulously, laughter cutting short as a distant glaze settled in his eyes. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Sam asked, stomach churning as he tried to push a sudden thought from his mind—a sudden thought it seemed that Peter had as well.

Peter closed his eyes and shook his head, murmuring, “Derek, what did you do?”

Sam strode across the room, nearly toe-to-toe with the werewolf before he stopped. “What _did_ he do?”

Peter opened his eyes, giving the hunter a weary look. Where ever Peter had been, it hadn’t been any kind of a vacation. And whatever Derek had done…there could only be one person he’d done it do.

“Stiles?” Sam asked, fingernails digging into the skin of his palms as his hands balled into fists.

“Stiles,” Peter confirmed with a nod.

“Then there is a mate?” Babirye questioned, patience stretched thinly in her voice.

Sam clenched his teeth. “Yeah,” he said, taking a steadying breath and turning to face the woman, “about that….”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles grunted as his back hit the ground. “There’s _got_ to be a better way of getting in and out of that place,” he muttered, turning onto his side and slowly making his way to his feet.

Everything hurt. _Everything_.

How was he going to explain this to his pop and his uncle? That their _extremely dangerous_ trip had been unnecessary? How was he going to explain this to his friends? To Derek’s pack? That he’d seen Derek, talked to him and touched him and still hadn’t been able to convince him to come back? To come home?

“This sucks,” he said, tears prickling behind his eyes as a sob bubbled up his throat. He slumped back against the tree he’d fallen from, covering his face with his hands and sliding to the ground. Bark bit into his back where his shirt rode up, but he hardly cared.

“Aww, what’s the matter, baby? Gotta booboo?”

The unfamiliar voice startled the teen from his grief, and he scrambled to his feet again, back firmly pressed to the tree. “Wha—”A man stood not ten feet from him, leaning a shoulder into a tree and watching him intently. He was well-built, clean (or cleaner than most things they’d come across here, anyway). And he wasn’t attacking. “Uh, I-I’m fine…Thanks.”

“Looked like a nasty fall,” the man said, southern accent softening his jab at Stiles’s lack of physical grace. “Sure you don’t want me to have a look?” He smiled, and _oh my fuck that’s a fucking vampire fuck i’m so fucked._

“No, I’m fine. Really,” Stiles said—totally convincingly, in case anyone was wondering. “I’m just…waiting for my dad. Who’s a hunter. A really awesome hunter. And very protective. Of me. His son.”

The vampire cocked an eyebrow, straightening and taking a lazy step forward. “Is that so?”

Stiles swallowed, fingers scrabbling against the tree bark before he turned, intent on running. Sadly, his intentions were cut short. He’d barely taken a step before he rammed into the vampire.

_Fucking Christ, this guy is fast._

“Where you goin’, darlin’?” the vampire asked quietly, one hand splayed on Stiles’s chest and trapping him against the tree while the other hand rested casually on the bark, supporting him as he leaned in close

_Too fucking close. Jesus._

Stiles squinted his eyes shut and turned his face away, which was really fucking stupid, if he thought about it, because then his neck was totally fucking exposed and, God, he didn’t want to die this way; he didn’t want his pop and uncle to find him dead after all they’d done to get him here.

Something brushed against his neck, and he jumped, a strangled noise escaping his mouth before he realized it wasn’t teeth. It was…a nose? Shit, was this dude smelling him?

_Fucking gross!_

“Hm,” the vampire said thoughtfully, and lifted his head away. Stiles opened his eyes slowly, looking up into a curious gaze. “Now, that’s interesting.”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek sat on the porch swing he and Stiles had shared barely an hour ago. It still smelled like him. And he both hoped and dreaded that it would smell like the teen for a long time.

“You’re an idiot,” Laura said from the doorway.

Derek looked up and scowled at his sister. “What, for letting him leave? He didn’t want to stay here.”

Laura rolled her eyes, stepping onto the porch and sitting beside her smart-but-seriously-dumb brother. “No, _genius_ , for not _going with him_.”

Derek leaned back into the swing and shook his head. “You know I’m not leaving you. Any of you.”

“Derek,” Laura said exasperatedly, standing and placing herself in front of him, “we’re not going anywhere! If you leave…It’s not forever. We’ll still be here waiting for you.”

With a sigh, Derek closed his eyes. “But what if I’m not allowed back? What if leaving here means I can’t ever come back?” He opened his eyes and looked up at his sister. “Or if I do something _out there_ that means I can’t come back? I don’t…I can’t….”

The young woman leaned forward, taking Derek’s face in her hands and pressing their foreheads together. “You are a good person, Derek. You belong here. And you _will_ come back. Someday.” She kissed his nose, and his face scrunched. “I love you.”

Derek stood and wrapped her in his arms. “I love you, too.”

Laura sniffed. “Go on, dummy. He’s getting away.”

With a wet laugh, Derek let go.

…He let go.

0 o 0 o 0

Dean took a breath and opened his mouth.

“Nearly there,” Gabriel grunted before the hunter could say anything, trudging through fallen leaves as though his legs were leaden.

Dean sighed, keeping his temper in check in lieu of the angel’s condition. “You said that. A while ago.”

“And I’m saying it again. Now,” Gabe spat. “And I’ll probably keep saying it. Until we reach—”

A sudden cry rang through the trees, and they both stopped, recognizing it immediately.

“Stiles,” Dean breathed, bolting in the direction the sound had come from. Gabriel, for all his waning strength, matched Dean stride for stride.

“There!” the angel called, pointing towards a clearing ahead of them.

It was empty, but Dean didn’t question him, halting abruptly as they reached it. For a moment, only their harsh breathing filled the tree-enclosed space.

“I don’t—” Dean panted, but then someone stepped into the clearing. “Stiles!” He took a hurried few steps before realizing that his son was not alone, and as the second figure stepped into the poorly-lit clearing, the bottom of Dean’s stomach dropped. “Shit.”

“Hey, baby.” He hadn’t heard that voice in a very long time, but he’d hardly forgotten it. How could he? He’d loved it, at one point in time. Loved everything about it and everything about the man…vampire…it’d belonged to. “Long time, no see. How you been?”

“Benny,” Dean said distantly, his body numb. He couldn’t move. Shit, he couldn’t move. And this…this _monster_ had Stiles.

Gabriel, on the other hand, had absolutely no problem moving. Waning strength or no, he started toward the vampire with a look of rage on his face that Dean figured rated on a scale of the biblical kind.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Benny warned, the hand he had wrapped around Stiles’s throat tightening. “Let’s play nice, now.”

Stiles stood on his the tips of his toes in an attempt to relieve the pressure. There were tear-tracks on his face, and Dean had the sinking feeling that it hadn’t been Benny who had put them there.

_Oh, kid…._

“Been waitin’ for you, lover,” Benny said with a vicious smile. He pressed himself up against Stiles’s back, dipping his head and closing his eyes as he buried his nose behind the teen’s left ear and inhaled deeply. His grip on the fabric of Stiles’s hoodie tightened, and he moaned. “Mmm. Smells just like you, Dean.”

“You get the _fuck_ off my son, Benny!” Dean shouted, daring to take a step forward but faltering when the grip around the teen’s neck tightened again and Stiles gave a choked gasp.

“Now, now, Dean,” Benny drawled, a lazy smile spreading his lips. “Thought we were gonna play nice.”

Dean swallowed and raised his hands, leveling the vampire with a dark look. “Let him go.”

“What’ll you give me?” Benny asked playfully.

“I’ll let you live,” Dean muttered, and Benny laughed.

“Already dead, baby. Think you can kill me here?”

“Didn’t have much trouble the first time.”

The smile on Benny’s face waned, and he tilted his head slightly before taking a quick, shallow breath. “You, Dean,” he said simply. “I want you.”

“You can’t have him,” Stiles blurted angrily, crying out as Benny’s fingernails dug into the meat of his neck. The teen’s head fell back on Benny’s shoulder, giving the vampire perfect access to his ear.

Gaze still firmly on Dean, he whispered, “Then he can’t have you.”

Benny’s garish fangs broke through his gums, and Dean only had a second to feel utter fear before those fangs found the soft flesh of his son’s neck.

“ _Stiles_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts: "Babirye" means "the eldest of twins" in African, and "Kato" means "the youngest of twins." "Alaba" means "second child born after twins," which kind of implies that maybe the three siblings had _another_ sibling at some point? If I could write an original story with just the three of them, I would be so happy!...Sadly, I have not the time. :/


	6. Sacrifice.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So…you’re telling me we can’t get home?
> 
> I’m telling you one of us can’t go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Hello. It is I. I am alive, I promise. And I’d like to thank you guys for being so patient with me. It’s been a tough couple of months. But things are getting better. A little note: We’re going to pretend that Bobby never died, okay? Sam never had to go into Purgatory/Hell to get his soul back, and Benny, of course, never had to go after Sam. So…there.
> 
> Enjoy this final chapter of part two of the Don’t Tell My Dads series!!!

Dean saw.

He saw blood dribble from the corners Benny’s mouth and down the side of Stiles’s neck, the kid’s eyes wide as he stared back in fear and pain and  _daddy help it hurts_.

He saw Stiles when he was just six, riding a bike with training wheels and so damn proud of himself and  _daddy look are you watching I’m riding all by myself!_

He saw Stiles’s lower lip tremble as the kid’s hands shook and he tried to speak, to mouth the word “pop,” and  _daddy what do I do?_

He saw Stiles when he was just twelve, pining over the red-headed girl at school and shoving a pillow over his head as he lay on his bed in despair and  _daddy why doesn’t she like me?_

He saw tears stream down Stiles’s cheeks and collide beneath his chin as Benny’s jaw tightened, the kid whimpering, and  _daddy why didn’t you stop this from happening?_

He saw Stiles when he was just seventeen, telling him he was dating some psychopath named Derek that lived all alone in an abandoned, burned house in the middle of nowhere and the way the kid’s eyes lit up when he looked at Derek and talked about Derek and laughed with Derek and  _daddy I love him._

And then Dean saw red.

He charged, and there was screaming in his ears, but a hand on his shoulder stalled him.

“Dean,” Gabriel said into the quiet, staring at Benny strangely. Dean ground his teeth and turned back to the monster attached to his son…

…The monster that had barely moved an inch since sinking his teeth into Stiles.

“What—” Before Dean could finish, Benny, suddenly, burst into a cloud of dust, swirling mid-air and settling around Stiles some before wisping away into the trees.

Stiles blinked, wavering on his feet a moment before his knees buckled.

“Stiles!” Dean called, but there were already arms around his son, catching him, cradling him.

Through shallow breaths and the haziness in his head, Stiles managed to make himself look up. He squinted. “Derek?”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, gaze flying over Stiles’s pale face and the wound on his neck. It was Stiles. It was  _his_  Stiles. His mate. His everything.

“Stiles,” he choked, hand fluttering over the puncture marks. He was losing so much blood. “Stiles, I…”

“Stiles!” Dean fell to his knees beside the two, fingers pressing roughly against the gushing wound. “Stiles, it’s okay. It’s okay, I got you, son.”

“Is…Is he going to turn?” Derek asked hesitantly, afraid of what the question meant—what the answer would mean.

“No,” Dean said firmly, a quick shake of his head bringing a relieved look to Derek’s face. “Benny didn’t… The transformation wasn’t complete.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed. “Did you know him?”

The hunter swallowed, meeting the other’s eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I used to.”

Gabriel leaned down beside them, laying a gentle hand on Stiles’s chest. “He’s losing a lot of blood.”

“So heal him, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Dean snapped.

The angel gave him a heavy look but did not protest, leaning forward until a shaking hand covered the wound on his nephew’s neck. A brief flash of light, and the puncture marks were gone, his throat clear of any blood that once stained pale, mole-pocked skin.

Almost immediately, the teen’s eyelids fluttered, eyes opening and gaze flitting in confusion. The disconcerted look landed on Dean.

“Pop?” he asked carefully, and Dean smiled, fingers stroking the kid’s hair and face.

“Yeah, Stiles. It’s okay. You’re okay. Take it slow for a minute, huh?”

Gabriel looked around them at the waning light and ground his teeth. “We don’t exactly have a minute, Dean-O. We need to get going.”

“Come on, Gabe, the kid can barely focus. He’s gonna need a second before he can walk,” Dean argued, but the angel leaned into his personal space and made an alarming amount of eye contact.

“Then pick him up and carry him,” he ground out dangerously, “ ‘cause we can’t stay here.”

“I’ve got him,” Derek said quickly, lifting Stiles easily from the ground.

Stiles flailed in pure Stiles fashion, arms flying around Derek’s neck as he made a small noise of protest.

“Hey! What…Derek?”

“Hi,” the werewolf said lamely, which made one corner of the teen’s mouth twitch upward.

“Do you—”

“Yes.”

“And—”

“Yes.”

“So we’re still—”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Stiles—”

But Derek could hardly be mad at the teen—not when he kissed him like that…in front of his pop…and uncle….

“Yes, very touching,” Gabe said impatiently, “but there’ll be time for that later. Let’s  _go_.”

It was difficult to pull away, especially with his feelings resurfacing, almost like he was reliving them all over again. He liked most of them, the feelings, but some of them hurt. And he didn’t have time to stop and wonder why.

The clock was ticking.

0 o 0 o 0

_-So, about that…._

Dean turned a watchful gaze to Gabriel, who was barely hobbling along and spoke hurriedly and hushed inside Dean’s head to keep Derek and Stiles from eavesdropping.

 _-About what?_  Dean asked back, keeping an eye on the werewolf trudging determinedly in front of them, Stiles cradled in his arms.

_-About going home…._

Dean nearly stumbled on a wayward tree root. “What?” he asked out loud, and Derek turned his head curiously. Dean shook his head at the alpha and gave a noncommittal shrug, making sure the man had turned around fully before looking at Gabriel desperately.

_-What do you mean ‘about going home’?_

Gabe gave him a guilty look. _-I may have used up too much power while healing Stiles._

Dean pursed his lips. _-So we wait. You get some strength back, then we go home._

_-We can’t wait, and you know it. I’m not regaining power like I’m supposed to be. And this portal is the only way out of here. If we miss it, we miss our chance of going home._

_-So…you’re telling me we can’t get home?_

Gabriel sighed.  _-I’m telling you_  one  _of us can’t go home._

Dean’s face contorted into a grim look.

 _-Okay,_  Dean said, inner tone resigned.

 _-Don’t sound so down, Dean-O,_ Gabe attempted in pure Trickster fashion. _You’re not the one being left behind._

Dean stopped walking, but Gabriel grabbed his arm, forcing him to keep going so that Derek wouldn’t notice anything wrong.

Not that he didn’t already. Gabe could see him turning his head every few seconds, trying to catch something and becoming increasingly frustrated as silence met him and kicked him out of the loop onto his ass.

_-Gabe, you can’t—_

_-I can._

_-No, you—_

_-I am._

_-What about—_

_-Sam will understand._  The angel gave a quick glance ahead of them.  _Stiles won’t. He needs you more._

_-We can—_

_-There’s no other way._

_-Will you stop interrupting me?_  Dean yanked his arm out of Gabe’s grasp, continuing to walk despite his instinct to stop and yell his frustration into the angel’s face.

 _-I’ll be all right,_ Gabe insisted, an attempted smile on his face.  _I trust you guys to find me a way out of here._

_-You’ll be defenseless._

_-You leave me that handy-dandy ax, and I’ll fair just fine._

Dean’s stomach twisted, and he hung his head at the thought of having to tell Sam.

_-Don’t worry about that. I’ll send a message with you._

_-Gabe, I…I can’t just—_

_-You can,_  Gabriel assured. _You will. No fuss, no muss. Over and done with before you know it._

_-You sure?_

Gabriel smiled as best he could.  _-Never._

0 o 0 o 0

The air above the Hale dining room table warped, and Sam barely had the chance to yell, “Everyone down!” before a bright blue light engulfed the room and a portal ripped open the space above their heads. Sam squinted up at it, resisting the urge to close his eyes fully.

The first figure to emerge was skinny and lanky and yelped as he spilled to the floor, and there was only one person that could be.

“Stiles!” he yelled over the sounds of whipping wind and howling and anger-anger-anger. He army-crawled across the floor, grabbing his nephew by the arm. The young man hissed in pain, clutching at the spot Sam was grasping. It was warm and bloated and glowing, and Sam couldn’t help but smile.

They’d done it. They’d brought Derek home.

The portal rippled, and Sam lurched forward, gathering Stiles into his arms and pulling him out of what appeared to be the runway for wayward Purgatory rejects. The second figure tumbled onto the floor in front of them, and Sam smiled in relief as they turned onto their back with a groan.

“Gabe!” he called, stretching a hand out and snagging the angel’s jacket to tug him out of the way. “Get out of the way! You’re gonna get hit by—”

The portal rippled…and closed.

0 o 0 o 0

“This is the place,” Gabriel said, his voice, though barely above a ragged rumble, was a shock against the silence they had been walking through. It was like that moment your ears pop after altitude had clogged them for so long. Clarity and relief and  _dear-Lord-that-feels-good._

“Here?” Dean asked skeptically. It wasn’t exactly the clearing he’d been expecting. Actually, it wasn’t a clearing at all, just a shadowed space between two crooked trees that looked exactly like every other shadowed space between two crooked trees they’d been walking past for hours.

Derek’s arms were shaking, but he still looked determined and had turned down all of Dean’s offers to take the sleeping Stiles from him. He looked at the spot with similar skepticism as he gently hitched the teen up into a more comfortable position.

“Yeah,” Gabe confirmed, grunting as he lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged. “Just let me catch my breath.”

“Thought you said we didn’t have time for that,” Derek said stoically, and Dean smirked because the exact words had been on the tip of his tongue.

“We don’t,” Gabe confirmed, gesturing to the three looming above him before pointing to himself. “ _I_  do while Dean shows you how to hitch yourself to Stiles.”

Derek shifted, glancing at Dean warily. “Uh…hitch?”

“Derek, you’re just a soul,” Dean tried to explain as briefly as possible. “Your body is back home. If we try to take you through the portal without a body—”

“I don’t get through,” Derek finishes with a nod.

“Right,” Dean sighed. “So, we hitch you to Stiles, you make it home to your body safe and sound. The end.”

“That’s it?” Derek asked, giving the sleeping teen in his arms a worried look. “Nothing happens to Stiles?”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, sharing a look with Gabe.

“Something would happen to Stiles,” Derek stated unhappily, shaking his head. “I won’t hurt him.”

“He won’t get hurt,” Dean said, taking a breath and holding it a moment. “…Much.”

“ _Much_?” Derek repeated, huffing incredulously. “No. Forget it.”

“Derek—”

“No.”

“We didn’t come all this way—”

“ _No_.”

“Dammit, kid—”

“Derek?” Stiles reached up, suddenly, grabbing the collar of Derek’s shirt and tugging. “Put…me down.”

“Stiles, I don’t know if I should—”

“Put. Me. Down.”

Derek complied, carefully setting the teen’s feet on the ground but keeping his arm around his back. Stiles stepped away, squaring his shoulders.

“I’m doing this,” he said.

“Stiles, I can’t—”

“Derek. Prescott. Hale. You will listen to me,” Stiles said angrily, hands balled into shaking fists at his side. “I am in Purgatory. Because of you. I have been scared shitless. Because of you. I have blown monsters to itty-bitty bits with my mind. Because of you. I have been  _bitten by a vampire_. Because. Of. You.” Stiles stepped into Derek’s space, backing him into a tree as his hysterics continued. “Derek. Prescott. Hale. I am  _here_  because of  _you_ , and I will bedamned if I am leaving this God-forsaken place without you. Now shut the  _fuck up_  and do what my pop  _tells you to do_.”

Derek swallowed, nodding quickly.

“That’s my boy,” Dean said with a smirk, stepping forward and catching his son as Stiles stumbled backward, holding his head.

“Shit,” the teen murmured, blinking stupidly. “I’m…I’m sorry. I…I don’t know where that came from.”

Gabriel chuckled from the ground. “It’s your alpha kickin’ in, kid.”

“Alpha?” Dean asked the angel, turning to face Derek with fire in his eyes as he pushed Stiles behind him. “What do you mean alpha?” Stiles attempted to intervene, but Dean brushed him off. “There something I should know here?”

Derek groaned and looked upward. Why had he left his version of heaven? Why was he being yelled at by not only his boyfriend but his boyfriend’s father (for something that wasn’t even wholly his doing, he might add)? And why, oh why, in the hell had he ever gotten involved with Stiles Freaking Winchester?

“I died,” Derek said simply. “I died, and my mate became the alpha.”

“Your  _what_?” Dean fumed, whirling on Stiles. “Are you  _kidding me_ , Stiles? What the hell were you—”

“Excuse me, what was  _I_  thinking?” Stiles interrupted loudly.

It was like it was before. Things had been good lately. Mostly. Not like they had been…. Screaming matches and threats to run off with certain werewolf boyfriends and the endless tension that Stiles might bring up the fact that his pop wasn’t really his…. Well, Stiles didn’t even like to think it, let alone say it. The closest he’d ever come had been just after Derek’s death. And that was, yet another, thing he didn’t like to think about.

This was bad. And only looking to get worse.

“You’re seriously going to stand there and lecture me after that fucking stunt back there?” Stiles pointed frantically, not even really sure from which direction they’d come.

“Hey, watch your—” Dean started, already seeing where the conversation was going.

“ _Benny_ , Pop? The vampire you  _fucked_  while you were still with Dad?”

“Stiles, that’s not fair,” Gabe said, tone suddenly very serious. Shit, he’d messed up this time. Sure, Dean deserved all the shit in the world for what he’d done to Cassy. But now was not the time. And now was not the place.

“ _What’s_  not fair?” Stiles demanded, gaze never leaving Dean’s. “The fact that I know about it, or the fact that I just threw it in his face?”

“Stiles,” Derek said gently, setting his jaw as he stepped forward. “Don’t do this. Not here.”

“Then  _where_?” Something around the young man rippled, his eyes sparking to life. “When? You think this is just going to fix itself? That going back will make a difference?”

“Yes! Yes, I do.” Derek countered. “You know what this place can do to people. And God only knows what it’s done to someone with your abilities.”

“He’s right,” Gabe said. “No matter what is going on here, Stiles, you have to remember…he’s your father.”

Stiles glowered at the space between the both of them. “But he isn’t, is he?”

Silence.

Then Stiles turned on Dean, eyes dark with a consuming hatred the hunter knew all too well. “ _You_  are not my father.”

Dean’s face hadn’t changed at all. Outside, he was calm, emotionless. He looked as though Stiles’s words hadn’t even fazed him. But Gabriel knew better. He could feel the abject guilt and hurt and betrayal. Dean was being consumed by his son’s words.

And there was little left to bring him back now. Dean stepped forward, suddenly, unsheathing a knife from his thigh strap and roughly grabbing Stiles’s arm. Without hesitation, he sliced the teen’s forearm just below the crook of his elbow.

Yeah, maybe it was a little deeper and larger than necessary…but the kid was being a bitch—whether he realized it or not.

Stiles inhaled sharply, tugging at his arm without any real conviction.

“Repeat after me,” Dean said lowly.

“Why?” Stiles snapped, crying out as Dean dug a thumb into the wound.

“Repeat. After. Me.”

_That’s right, kid. Recognize that tone? You got that from me._

The teen breathed harshly through gritted teeth, nodding once and looking away. Dean began saying the words, pausing and waiting for Stiles to repeat them before grabbing Derek’s hand and placing it over the wound.

Stiles finished the incantation, and Derek managed a fleeting look of doubt in Dean’s direction before a bright light overtook him and he disappeared into the open wound.

Dean dropped Stiles’s arm, and the young man hissed in pain, clutching it to his chest. “That it?” he asked, words clipped.

“Yeah,” Dean said, looking old and tired and far less the man he was. “That’s it. Let’s get this over with.”

0 o 0 o 0

Sam stared at the empty space a moment longer, blanching as he realized his brother wasn’t there. Wasn’t there. Wasn’t there.

“Stiles,” he breathed, grabbing the young man again and turning him so they were eye to eye.

Stiles was woozy and in pain and not quite in the moment, but the teen shut his eyes, shook his head, and tried his best to focus. “Un…Uncle Sammy?”

“Stiles, where’s your father?”

The young man glanced around the room, head unsteady on his neck as he spotted Castiel. He raised a crooked finger and began to point. “He’s—”

Sam shook Stiles. “ _Dean_ , Stiles. Where’s Dean?”

Stiles took a shallow breath and sighed. “He’s—” He turned, eyes skimming the floor where only his Uncle Gabe seemed to be lying unconscious. Castiel was at his side, piercing blue eyes on the teen. “He’s…He should have…Pop?” Stiles searched the room, trying to stand on legs that wouldn’t quite work to his advantage. So many strangers—unwelcome in  _his_  home and on  _his_  land. And before he knew what he was doing, he was on his feet, teeth bared at the strangers who were barely on their own feet. “What are you doing here?”

Babirye was the first to gather her footing and composure, one thin eyebrow rising in interest. “This is the mate?” She took her time looking him up and down. “Not overly impressive, is he?”

“I’m  _plenty_  impressive,” Stiles snapped, squaring his shoulders and ignoring the ache in his arm—and everywhere. Jesus, everything hurt. “And this place is mine. So leave.”  
Kato snarled, and Sam placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

“Now’s not really the time for a power-trip, Stiles,” he murmured, but the teen stood his ground.

“This  _infant_  is no more qualified to rule these lands than the Hales were,” Kato said, and the blood in Stiles’s veins boiled.

All at once, the debris caused by the portal began to shift, hovering inches off the floor. The walls rumbled, pictures that had been able to cling for dear life falling to the ground and shattering. Something beneath their feet cracked and shook.

Kato hesitated. “Sister….”

“It is not me,” Babirye said, an inquisitive smile on her face. “I believe it is time we left. We have over-stayed our welcome here.” Her twin brother huffed his annoyance, but she merely lifted her chin, indicating there would be no contest to her words. Reluctantly, the members of the Council began to file from the room, surprising the group by offering Stiles a slight bow on their way from the house.

Babirye was the last to approach him, confidence and calm in her eyes. “Stiles. It is an honor to meet such talent in one so young.” She leaned forward, placing a kiss on his cheek and whispering in to his ear. “Take care your talent is not directed in the wrong place.” She smiled again, turning and starting for the door. Before she passed into what was quickly becoming morning light, she turned her head so that she could be heard. “You would make an exceptional wolf, Stiles.”

“I’m fine the way I am,” the teen replied, though his tone was a little weaker than he would have liked.

The woman laughed. “We shall see.” And then the Council was gone.

Stiles fell to the floor in agony.

0 o 0 o 0

“Get him upstairs,” Sam said, helping a whimpering Stiles into Peter’s arms, grip tight on the man’s upper arm as he leaned in with a menacing look. “You wait until I get up there. Don’t touch the body, and don’t try anything. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Body?” Peter asked, looking up the stairs, but Sam merely pushed the both of them towards the first step.

“Go.” As soon as he was sure they were on their way, he turned towards Castiel, who was still leaning over Gabe’s unconscious form. “How is he?”

“Weak,” Cas said grimly, fingers smoothing his brother’s hair back. “I can heal him, but it will take some time.”

“Do it. I’ll be upstairs.” Sam stood, but Cas grabbed his wrist.

“Sam….”

Sam knelt down, pulling his brother-in-law into a tight hug, which the angel returned full-force. “It’s okay. We’ll find out what happened. And then we’ll get him back.” Pulling away, he offered a tight smile and a nod before standing and turning towards the stairs again.

Castiel nodded to the emptiness Sam had left behind. “Yes. Of course,” he said blandly. “Dean’s fine. We’ll…We will get him back.”

0 o 0 o 0

Sam stormed into Derek’s room, startling Stiles and making Peter turn from his position in the far corner. He’d been staring at Derek’s body, a hollow look on his face.

“Stiles, come here,” Sam said, raising a hand and gesturing the teen to come to him.

“Uncle Sammy, where’s Pop?” Stiles asked instead, clutching at his arm with a pained look as tears swam in his eyes. “Wh-Where is he?”

“We don’t have time for this, Stiles. Come here. I need you to stand at the foot of the bed, all right?” Sam had to physically move Stiles, positioning him at the foot of the bed and facing Derek, arm out-stretched. “Okay, repeat after me.”

Stiles did, voice shaky and laced with sobs, and Sam supported him when he cried out. Derek’s soul split from his arm and swirled above the prone body before entering it, everyone holding their breath until, finally, Derek drew in his first.

“Derek!” Stiles exclaimed, lurching forward onto the bed and curling around the man.

Derek’s red eyes swiveled in confusion before returning to a familiar and comfortable green, his arms coming up and around Stiles instinctively before he realized who was attached to him. “Stiles?” he asked, voice hoarse. He coughed, and Peter moved across the room.

“I’ll get him some water,” he said as he left.

Sam watched the two for a moment longer, deciding to give them a moment and check on his own better half. He passed Peter on the stairs, stopping him with another firm grip on the man’s arm.

“Yeah, I know,” Peter said with an aggravated sigh. “If I do anything, you’ll chop me into little werewolf pieces. I get it.”

Sam snorted. “I was going to say ‘thank you.’ But that part still stands, too.” He gave the man an assessing look. “I almost expected you to make an escape.”

Peter shrugged. “He’s family.”

_Says the man who murdered his niece in cold blood._

“Yeah, I guess so.” Sam released him, making his way down the stairs and to the kitchen, where he found Castiel helping a now conscious Gabriel into an up-righted dining room chair. “I got this, Cas. Go check on Stiles.”

The angel nodded gratefully, disappearing with the soft sound of wings. Sam crouched down in front of Gabe, hands moving up the angel’s thighs to rest on his hips.

“Hey,” Sam said, concern etched into his facial features, “you all right?”

Gabriel sighed, running his fingers through Sam’s hair and resting them at the base of the hunter’s neck. “I’ll be fine,” he said unconvincingly. He leaned forward, placing a chaste kiss on the corner of Sam’s mouth. “Missed you.”

“Yeah,” Sam chuckled, grip on Gabe’s hips tightening. “Missed you, too.”

“A lot?” Gabe questioned, eyebrows waggling suggestively.

Sam smiled wide to hide the quiver in his lips, but his watery eyes betrayed him. “More than you know,” he said huskily, leaning into a hug as Gabriel tugged him forward.

“It’s okay,” the angel promised, pressing kisses into Sam’s hair. “It’s gonna be okay.”

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel appeared outside Derek’s closed door, startling Peter, who had taken up post there. “You know,” the werewolf said cheekily, “that trick just keeps getting better and better every time I see it.”

“It is not a trick,” Castiel said dully, looking to the door. “Are Derek and Stiles all right?”

Peter settled back against the door frame, crossing his arms. “A little worse for wear, maybe, but not bad off, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You are not concerned,” the angel stated, giving the man a hard look, “and, to be quite honest, you are no longer needed.”

The man tensed but tried his best to keep his cool. “Are you, uh, sending me back to my shitty little hut, then?”

“Yes.” Castiel stepped forward, leaving no room between them. “But know this: I know how to find you. And if I hear word that you have done anything to compromise my family or anyone associated with them—”

“You won’t hear a peep,” Peter said quickly, wincing. “Scout’s honor.”

Castiel stepped back, narrowing his eyes as he said, “Very well.” He raised a hand, but Peter held up his own.

“Wait, wait,” he said, taking a breath when the angel hesitated. “How…How did you find me to begin with?”

Castiel frowned contemplatively. “Christopher Argent.”

Peter’s eyebrows rose. “Chris? He—”

“Yes,” the angel interrupted. “And I would like to add that he is amongst the list of people my family is associated with. You will leave him alone.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped, and he nodded solemnly as Cas placed two fingers against the werewolf’s forehead.

And then Peter was gone.

Castiel stayed very still for a moment, staring at the doorknob as he tried to build the courage to enter the room. Dean was gone. Stiles was all he had left. No, that wasn’t right. He had Sam. And Gabe. But Stiles was…different. Stiles belonged to both him and Dean. Stiles, biological son or not, was part of them. And they were part of him. Stiles was the only part of Dean he had left….

His fingers wrapped around the doorknob, and he nearly turned it when Stiles’s choked crying came from within the room. Castiel knew he should go in. Or leave. Make his presence known, at least. But he couldn’t.

So he stood.

And listened.

0 o 0 o 0

“Shit, Der,” Stiles hicupped, burying his face in Derek’s shoulder. “The things I said to him—”

“That wasn’t you,” Derek protested, hands rubbing gently at the teen’s back. They were sitting up on Derek’s bed, sides flush against one another. “Stiles, don’t you dare blame yourself for that. It wasn’t your fault. Your pop stayed to save you. He knew you didn’t mean any of that.”

Stiles sobbed. “The last thing he ever heard from me, and I…I….”

“We’ll get him back,” the older man said, confidence in his words that Stiles just couldn’t bear to hear. “There has to be a way.”

“I can’t. I can’t do this.” The teen hung his head and covered his face with his hands.

“You can. We’ll do this together.”

Stiles sniffled and stood, shaking his head as he paced the room. “That’s not…what I meant.”

The pit of Derek’s stomach dropped. “Stiles….”

“I know. This is really shitty of me. We just got you back, and I’ve spent all this time freaking out about you dying, and then I’m some sort of alpha without knowing I’m an alpha, and—”

“Stiles, just…take it easy.” Derek stood, carefully approaching the young man. “Your dad just…and you aren’t thinking right. Take some time. Don’t—”

“No,” Stiles said abruptly. “I don’t…I don’t want to break up, Derek. But I think some time apart might…. And I need to be with my family, anyway. There’s just…too much to think about.”

Derek took a step back, a sadness on his face that Stiles had never seen before—that Stiles had put there. He didn’t want that. But he couldn’t keep this happiness. He didn’t deserve it. Not when he’d….

“Okay,” Derek said quietly, sitting down on the bed and looking at the floor.

“Okay,” Stiles repeated numbly, feet moving towards the door before he could stop himself.

Out in the hall, he found his father, wrapping his arms around the man and sobbing into his shirt like he had when he was a kid.

“Dad?”

_Daddy?_

“Can we go home?”

_Please?_

Castiel wrapped his arms around his son and took them home.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles shoved a pillow over his head. That stupid floor vent across the room carried the voices of his father and his uncles from the kitchen, and he couldn’t stand to hear them talking.

"So these werewolves coming to town," Uncle Sammy said, tone business-like. Hunter-like.

"Taken care of," Uncle Gabe said. He sounded tired. "Cas and I have set up a barrier around Beacon Hills, and the Argent family has offered their assistance with perimeter checks."

"Fine," his father said a little more curtly than usual."And Dean?"

“We’ll do what we did the first time,” Uncle Sammy said. “We go to Purgatory, then we find a portal and get out.”

“It won’t work,” his father said solemly.

“The hell it won’t,” Uncle Gabe argued. “Why wouldn’t it work a second time?”

“Because Dean knew he wasn’t coming back.”

Silence.

“What…What do you mean?” Uncle Sammy asked.

“The portal,” his father explained with a sigh, “will only return the same amount of people who entered in the first place. Three of you went in…and three of you came out.”

“So we…we find some douchebag monster, drag his ass in, and pull Dean out,” Uncle Sammy said desperately.

“It has to be someone willing. Purgatory requires…sacrifice. That is how we knew Derek would make it out. Because Dean….”

“We’ll find a way,” Uncle Gabe said when his father hesitated.. “There has to be a way.”

Stiles buried his face further into his bed.

_The portal opened, and his pop shouted over the noise. “You first, kid.”_

Tears prickled behind his eyes, and he smashed his fist into the headboard.

_Stiles stepped up to the portal, turning to his father._

He ground his teeth, shaking his head furiously as his chest tightened around his lungs.

_“I wish you’d left me to die with my real parents,” he said. His pop’s face fell._

A lump formed in his throat, and he desperately tried to swallow it down, his feet kicking out restlessly.

_“I hate you.” And the look of devastation was the last thing he saw before white, hot light enveloped him._

Stiles screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me....

**Author's Note:**

> And the first chapter is finishedddd!! I am so excited to get this sequel going, you guys! I had so much more I wanted to put into this chapter, but the nine-page sex scene (typed; 19 pages hand-written, oh my gahd) kind of took over everything. More to come soon! Thanks for sticking with me, everyone!! I am so grateful for all your support! :) Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.


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